


Galatea's Requiem

by thehiddenbaroness



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Action/Adventure, Art History, Artificial Intelligence, Gen, Pygmalion and Galatea, Revenge, Science Fiction, crime caper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehiddenbaroness/pseuds/thehiddenbaroness
Summary: Dee - a rare immersive art installation AI - was stolen in an attack on Everett Mordechai, a pharmaceutical tycoon affiliated with the erstwhile Red Dragon Syndicate. At first glance the crime seems incidental, but programmer Gideon tasks himself and what remains of the Bebop with finding her. What they uncover is far from incidental, and the fledgling AI has motives of her own.





	1. Crime Scene Concertino

**Author's Note:**

> A Note from the Author: This is my first Cowboy Bebop fic, so constructive criticism welcome - please be gentle, and enjoy! Takes place around a month after the series' end so there may be spoilers. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 1: Crime Scene Concertino**

_The Mordechai Estate, Mars_

 

He always made time for a story -- Dee had to give him that.

Everett Mordechai, his wife Teresa, and his ten year-old daughter Edie had gathered by the fireplace in his study, which overlooked the extensive back garden through a plain floor-to-ceiling window. Under the shroud of newly-fallen twilight the expensive imported plants and the expensive lounge furniture were merely shades of deep emerald lacquer presided over by yet more expensive climate-control pylons that every so often sprayed a fine mist or glowed red to provide heat. This window being immediately opposite Dee, she had had much time to memorize everything outside of it ever since she was moved into the study around a year ago.

She’d also had time to memorize everything between her and the window -- the walls of built-in shelves of books she was fairly certain were not real and the glass display cases of antique scientific equipment she was fairly certain was real; the expensive ornate carpets; the expensive furniture. The cognac leather-topped desk was in front of her with its matching chair, its draw-up monitors and keyboard lowered for the night and its drawers locked. For such an expensive set the chair still squeaked every time he would turn around to face her and the ominous sound echoed around her memory bank, unable to be filed away.

‘Expensive’... Everett liked things to be expensive. Everything he owned, and liked to portray. “Good taste is necessary for success” was something he liked to say. Dee suspected he also liked for his wife and only child to feel as though time with him was a precious commodity, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if she saw Everett more than they did.

‘Precious commodity’... He’d called her that once, on the occasion of moving her from the front foyer to this more private room. That’s when she’d detected what kind of man Everett Mordechai was, and it had grown ever-clearer to her with every squeak of his chair, every immersion with her he undertook and the growing fantasies he’d asked her for, every questionable visit late at night and every curious thing she’d seen over his shoulder, handed over to those aliased visitors -- more than that, every doctor’s appointment and birthday he missed.

She returned her unblinking gaze to them: Madame Teresa reclined on her chaise with her two blankets and the clear tube running discreetly from her nose out of sight behind her to the humming apparatus that helped her breath; Edie sitting on the thick rug with her mother’s hand trailing softly through her hair and her arms wrapped snugly around a large china doll; Everett himself reclined on the floor on his side, facing them, turning the page of the huge storybook Edie had brought in with her. The three of them were a handsome family -- inky black hair that shone in the firelight and tumbled over their shoulders, coppery skin, noble bearing -- which made it easier for an outlier to think them happy. Dee knew that storytime only existed because Madame Teresa and Edie came here, to this room, to make him happy.

‘Orpheus and Eurydice’ had been Edie’s favorite for a week or so now. When Dee had asked her about it yesterday, she’d got the impression that it was an old one and that Edie liked it because the part about the journey to the underworld frightened her. Dee could not understand fear itself much less why a child would like to be frightened, but accepted it. She herself had grown to like the tale, as it allowed her a different sort of glimpse into human nature. Life inside Everett’s study was quite limited for a piece of art like her.

“...Orpheus began to climb the stair to the upper world,” Everett was saying. He was using his gifts for oration to good effect, Dee noted -- Edie was rapt, her blue eyes wide, and even Madame Teresa looked more alert than usual. “His footsteps echoed around him: _thump, thump, thump_.” He patted a hand on the rug for effect.

Movement in the dark garden beyond the window caught Dee’s attention. Everett detested all wildlife that wasn’t dead on his floor or wall and she wondered if the protective fence had malfunctioned again. She watched. The movement came again, too tall for an animal and too big for a bird.

“ _Thump, thump, th --_ ”

_Rat-tat-tat-tat-crash-rat-tat-tat-tat._

Gunfire from at least five sources sparked in the garden and destroyed the great window; it pummeled into the floor and the furniture, and the display cases exploded and disgorged their fragile contents. Several bullets passed through Dee and dotted the plain paneled wall behind her. Edie was screaming; Madame Teresa was already dead on her satin pillows with goosedown floating down to settle on her hair. As black-clothed figures began to materialize out of the foliage, Dee watched Everett make a run for the hidden door next to the fireplace and though he received a shot in the arm, he disappeared through it. For the first time in her artificial life Dee felt panic at the sight of the door closing before Edie could reach it -- she pounded on it only once before running to Dee.

Though she knew her arms could never embrace her, Dee knelt and held them out nonetheless.

“Dee!” Edie was sobbing.

The child was cut down by a line of bullets and collapsed at the edge of Dee’s platform; the panic she felt was replaced by outrage and sorrow. She could not reach her, only watch as blood bloomed on the pink nightgown and wish she could bleed, too.

There were a dozen masked figures in the study, now. Half of them were exiting the room with further gunfire and shouts of the staff, another two were attaching explosives to the hidden door, two more were raiding the shelves and the furniture as though searching for something, while the final two came to Everett’s desk and tried to break it open.

Almost like an afterthought, one of them turned to Dee. “Hey, a Deco-Install,” he said.

“Not what we’re here for,” said the other.

“No but they’re worth a lot.” He looked around her frame, found her memorydrive and yanked hard.

 

* * *

 

_Tybalt Hoss & Associates: Acquisitions, Auctioneers, and Replicas; Mars _

_(The next morning)_

 

“Thanks, Samantha,” Gideon said and traded a note and some change for the coffee and pastry she held out to him.

“Your turn next Friday!” she chimed as she went on her way to her desk at the other end of the open-plan Programming office, which was largely vacant on account of the rest of the five-strong team being off, working from home, or coming in late.

“You bet.”

The antique grandfather clock by the elevator chimed 8AM; Mr Hoss had grown tired of its slightly dissonant noise and had consequently ‘gifted’ it to the Programming department under the guise of ‘a reward for good work’. It’d barely been down here on the fifth floor a week and already the team was tired of it. As soon as its chime stopped Gideon felt his mind clear again, and he settled back into his chair to read the news over his breakfast while Samantha started to prep for their latest digitization project -- a hefty acquisition in the form of what they were sure was a genuine Earth replica of Rodin’s _L'Eternelle Idole_ that now sat on the imaging mat in front of the row of programmer desks. He heard her muttering about Jolier not moving the packaging from yesterday out of the way and smirked.

Normally Gideon went straight to _The Red Herald_ ’s arts and culture section, as the rest tended to either frustrate, bore or panic him, but the name ‘Mordechai’ on the front page and the images of bloodstained carpets caught his attention. He expanded the window on his monitor and sipped his coffee before reading aloud, “Pharmaceutical Tycoon Missing: Mordechai Estate Raided and Family Murdered”.

“Wow -- the entire family?” Samantha called. “Didn’t he have a kid?”

Gideon skimmed the article. “Seems that way. The wife was terminally ill, too.”

“I know Mordechai himself was supposed to be a bit of a crook, but that’s awful. Who did it? Do they know?”

“Not yet, though apparently ‘speculations about his involvement with the erstwhile Red Dragon Syndicate are gaining traction’. Maybe gang-related, then,” he said, “particularly if Mordechai’s missing rather than dead.”

Samantha stretched. “You know what this means, don’t you? We can expect Mr Hoss to send the Vulture Department over there ahead of the formal estate auction to see if there’s anything worth acquiring,” she groaned. “I hate that. It’s so insensitive.”

“Part of working for a twenty-first-century art dealer contracted by a company like Fontbleu,” he grumbled. He clicked a few more times on the scroll for the article. “Looks like the place was cleaned out pretty good, though. Might not be anything left.” He nibbled at his pastry for a minute or two as he read more thoroughly despite himself. He then recalled why the Mordechai name stood out for him particular. “Hey, I just remembered -- a couple of years back I did the programming for a DV:IAI for Mordechai. Model...6, I think,” he said. He tucked the article away and sat forward, beginning to look in his files. Sure enough, the date matched his memory.

“I’m surprised you forgot,” Samantha said as she pulled on a pair of white cloth gloves and began brushing down the Rodin with a soft brush. “You put in so much overtime on that one. Ottosen and I thought we’d have to stage an intervention or get ordained to marry you to it, one or the other.”

Gideon held up a free hand and gave her a loose grin, “It was a lot of work, all right? They guy wanted twelve pieces -- _twelve_ . _Including_ two sculptures. Those took eighty percent of the work by themselves -- any time there’s a Bernini that you have to animate _and_ program into the immersion interface you may as well kiss your weekends goodbye for the next two months if you want to do it right.”

“Mmm-hmm, sure.”

He ignored her skeptical tone. “Anyway, the Model 6 was expensive. I wonder if they took her, too.”

“‘Her’, eh.”

“Oh, shut up.” He scanned through the news article again, but didn’t find any mention of the DV:IAI6, not that he expected it to. There weren’t many other news items on the Mordechai Estate raid yet, either. He finished his coffee and pastry, and after pulling on his own pair of gloves he began to help Samantha with the Rodin.

Happily, the first stages of digitization work were second-nature to him by now, even with sculpture, so his mind being distracted wasn’t too much of a problem. As they worked one by one the various pieces of art that Mordechai had selected for the Model 6 came back to Gideon -- pieces he’d seen before countless times over the course of his six-year career with TH & Associates and programmed several times in various installations -- but somehow it had been different with the Model 6.

 _The time spent,_ he told himself. _That was all. And the bonus check helped._

 

* * *

 

_(Late that night)_

 

 _You are so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Gideon told himself as he snuck past the pair of security guards and under the yellow tape surrounding the broken-open back gate of the Mordechai Estate. His heart was thundering in his ears.

He slipped down the side of the house and down into a basement courtyard of sorts, and entered through what he guessed was the kitchen. He’d only been to the mansion once to oversee installation of the Model 6 and thus, it took him some time to carefully make his way back to the front foyer. Gideon cursed when the Model 6 wasn’t there, and though his first thought was to give up and retreat he quickly rationalized that the entire frame and platform that the installation normally connected to was gone -- meaning it must have been moved since.

Gideon took longer than he thought he’d allow himself to search the likely locations -- halls, formal dining room, music room -- until he at last came upon the study, which had been blocked off with additional tape and hover-markers for key crime analysis. This room had more debris and bullet holes than anywhere else in the house, and even in the dim light he could see the blood on the floor. Common sense kept him behind the tape at the doorway, but he nonetheless managed to spot the gilded eight-by-six empty frame hanging behind the desk, which had been ripped asunder and overturned onto the six-by-five platform attached to the bottom of the frame. With the angles and the bad light, however, he could not tell if the Model 6’s memorydrive was still attached to the far side of the frame.

He hesitated, and then stepped under the tape. _Still stupid,_ he repeated to himself as he skirted the edge of the room toward the frame. His foot nudged a crumbled china planter and he nearly tripped over the houseplant that’d been toppled. He sighed with relief when he reached the frame, though it took further awkward angling and stretched strides to get around the ruins of the desk without slipping on any of the scattered papers.

Sure enough, the memorydrive was gone -- ripped out without proper disconnection, from the looks of things.

 _That’s going to be a bitch to fix,_ he thought, which was immediately followed with, _Wait. You’re talking like you’re going to find her. Get a hold of yourself, Chung. Your morbid curiosity is satisfied now go home._

Gideon precariously made his way back out the way he’d come and was amazed to find that the cops were still in the same spot he’d left them in. Once he felt he was a safe distance away he sprinted to his hovercar, cursing himself all the way. The long drive home was filled with similar sentiments of: _It’s just a program. Just twelve replicas that didn’t even belong to you. You’re not a criminal -- what the fuck did you think you were doing breaking into a crimescene? What if there were cameras? There probably were. Kiss your career goodbye. Fuck…_

By the time he was feverishly trying to get to sleep, however, he was tormented by a vision of Bouguereau's _Aphrodite_ as much as paranoia.  


	2. Bebop Drift Ambient

**Chapter 2: Bebop Drift Ambient**

_ Orbiting Titan _

 

Faye stretched as she wandered out of the common area and down the hall to Jet’s greenhouse of sorts, where he spent much of his time when they weren’t actively going anywhere -- which was ninety percent of the time nowadays. It’d been less than a month since Spike had...since he had left, and not come back. Both of them had been dealing with it in different ways that tended to play nice in close quarters such as these, but Faye knew it wouldn’t last forever. They’d been orbiting Titan for a week now -- he hadn’t explained why and for once she’d been afraid to ask.

She came up to the open door, leaned on the frame and tucked a foot behind the other, folding her arms. Jet didn’t look up from the bonsai he was tending, though ‘tending’ was being generous -- he was barely touching it. “Oi,” she said lowly, too tired for her usual bite. He glanced at her briefly and went back to the stupid tree. “Got a call. You might want to come see. Some weirdo.”

“If it’s a weirdo, hang up. I’ve got better things to do,” he mumbled back and leaned in closer.

“A weirdo with an advance of  ₩ 100,000 for us if we just meet with him. Come on. I’ll eat your trees if we don’t have food soon.”

“You can always leave. The  _ Red Tail _ ’s fixed.”

“We’ve talked about this. Don’t you think if I was going to leave I would have gone already? Or stayed gone to begin with?” 

Jet didn’t respond, merely reached out with the shears, selected a single tiny leaf and clipped it. His eyes were dull as he stared at his minute work.

She tried a different approach -- one she’d been holding onto, hesitantly nurturing it here and there, reluctant to use it. “Jet. Please.” She held her breath, waited.

Faye didn’t dare release that breath when he finally moved, methodically setting the shears back in the small toolbox he kept them in, closing it, and standing. He moved past her without a word or change in expression as if a different kind of gravitational pull were acting on him. When she saw him head toward the livingroom, she let out a slow sigh and followed.

“Hello? Hello?” came the crackling echo from the computer. 

Since Jet wasn’t moving quickly enough for her liking, Faye called to it, “Yeah, yeah, we’re here, hang on,” and rushed around him to get back in view. She tapped on the side of the monitor out of habit, though she reasoned the static was due to Jupiter blocking the Mars signal.

“I heard something about  ₩ 100,000 just for a chat,” said Jet as he sat down in front of the screen. “Strangely generous.”

“Then you’re not used to dealing with honest businesspeople,” said the thirty-something on the other end. He gave an indulgent smile Faye didn’t much like because he looked too soft to be in a position to give it. Strips of green and gray scattered across his face, making it hard to determine the details of it. All she could really make out was a pale collared shirt and an undone tie, light -- or maybe medium-tone? -- hair and a beard.

“Did you honestly think we were? Y’know who you’re talking to, right?” she quipped. “You don’t contact a bounty hunter for honest work.”

“But I can handle the transaction honestly. That’s tempting in of itself, right?”

“Who are you?” Jet said.

“Gideon Foka Chung; I’m a programmer.”

“What’d you do, hack something you came to regret and need the trash taken out?” Jet sat back and folded his arms, looking away.

Faye could see him closing down. “No, he just wants us to find something that was stolen, that’s all.”

“The meeting is to give you what I know, and an advance. You’re coming from Titan, right?”

Jet cocked an eyebrow. “Why us?”

“I went alphabetically down a very short list of bounty hunters I knew about -- I’m short on time so the first to answer got it.”

“You haven’t given away anything yet, son.”

Faye could just about discern how Chung shrugged. “Think of it as free money either way. Just meet with me, hear what I have, and make your decision from there. If you don’t want it, no harm no foul. Go ahead and run a check on me. I’m just a civilian,” he said.

“You won’t be if you hire us,” Faye mumbled and then regretted it, fearing it might give Jet a push to not go for it.

There was a moment’s pause, which interested her, and then Chung said, “I’m willing to take that risk. So what will it be?”

Faye waited for Jet to respond, but he didn’t seem to be paying any attention anymore.

The connection stuttered. Chung waited too, and then said, “I’ll be at The Yellow Light at Danber and Thow, Tharsis. Seven P.M. -- no harm no foul.” He actually managed a smile. 

The briefest of hesitations. She saw Chung move to cut the connection and said hurriedly, “We’ll be there.” She cut the call herself.

“Since when do you make the decisions around here?” Jet shouted at her as he stood.

“Maybe because that’s the most alive I’ve seen you in the last month!” she retorted and put her hands on her hips. “If we don’t do something...we’re just wasting our lives like this. Do you think Spike would --”

“Don’t you say it,” he pointed at her, “don’t you say his name.”

“He was a lazy ass but he never would have wanted this kind of limbo,” Faye pressed on. “We’ve stalled. You need to shake yourself out of it. Either decide to become a civ again or a detective or whatever the fuck you want, or decide to keep going after bounties. Don’t just sit there. I’m sick of it. His memory deserves better.” She surprised herself with how tight her throat felt and the burning behind her eyes. “You should value yourself more,” she added, lowly, and this must have hit a nerve because the anger in Jet’s eyes was replaced by something that looked as hurt as she felt. “What else do we have.”

There was a moment of quiet. Jet looked away. Faye drew herself up, raised her chin. “I’m going to Mars,” she stated as collectedly as she could manage. She waited, unmoving.

He didn’t look at her or respond, but he trudged to the bridge and, soon after, Faye felt the rumble of the  _ Bebop _ ’s thrusters. She felt her body attempt to sway with the tilt away from Titan.

* * *

 

The last place Jet had wanted to go was Mars -- Tharsis in particular. They hadn’t been back here since Spike had left them that final time. As soon as they were out of the gate and staring head-on at that rusty ingot he felt sick to his stomach. He’d managed to not think about that day and all its particulars in a while, too focused on the absurd listlessness that had taken hold of him piece by piece, day by day -- and now it came flooding back. Jet stemmed the flow in the only way he knew how, since his relative solitude had been taken from him: he kept himself busy.

Faye, to her credit, didn’t gloat. She didn’t say much at all, in fact, as they made their descent. They only talked enough to determine that neither of them had been to The Yellow Light before, but that it was easy enough to find and inconspicuous to boot. They went armed anyway.

Faye led downward into the basement establishment, Jet followed. He felt as though he was moving through a haze and it wasn’t helped by the dim light and shadowed, murmuring patrons in the bar and the pall of smoke that hid the low ceiling. It stank of an herb of some kind, for some reason, and not one he recognized. A glance to his left showed him that what he thought would be a regular bar was in fact serving hot coffee; the violent hiss of the milk steamer shot through the halfhearted melodies of the jukebox in the corner. They paused, and scanned the olive leather booths lining the walls and the mostly empty bistro tables between them and the bar. 

Jet hadn’t retained many facial details of Gideon Chung from the call, or from the subsequent background check Faye had run en-route, but when a figure in a far booth waved in their direction Faye headed immediately for it and Jet had to assume it was the right person. He felt too tired for this, and regretted agreeing to it. The man was getting up from his booth.

The two of them shook hands with the programmer -- a thirty-four year-old with a flop of blond-streaked dark brown hair knotted at the back of his head and an unkempt beard, a slight sag to his stomach just about hidden by his untucked red button-up. Jet couldn’t quite tell the color of his eyes, which disconcerted him for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint. 

As they sat down, Jet said, “Your hair looks like police caution tape. Maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

Although Faye hissed at and elbowed him, Gideon said, “Tried. Didn’t work out for me.” 

An awkward silence, and then Gideon sighed and turned to the seat next to him, procuring a small toolbox the color of Mars’ soil -- a twin to the one Jet himself owned, albeit a different color. He refused to be moved by this, however, and kept his face neutral as Gideon placed it in front of them. Faye wasted no time in opening it; while she counted the bills within Gideon idly stirred his coffee with the most ridiculously small spoon Jet had ever seen.

“All here,” said Faye and closed the toolbox’s lid, putting it beside her on the seat. 

“That’s your consultancy fee,” Gideon said. “There’s another two when the job’s done.”

“How is it that a young fella like you has this money to blow?” Faye leaned forward on the yellowing formica table. 

“He’s Harper Chung’s grandson,” Jet mumbled. “The fuel mongol. Wasn’t in the background check but it’s easy enough to find out.”

“ _ Step _ -grandson, actually. But yeah. May he rest in peace,” Gideon let out a sardonic sigh and sat back in his seat. “Does it matter anyway? Don’t you want to know more about the job?”

A waitress stopped by at that point and tried to hand Jet a suspiciously long menu, but he waved it away. Faye ordered for both of them and he didn’t have the strength to argue. Gideon added a second to the order. When the waitress was gone, Jet said, “Thought you said you were short on time? Spill it.”

“The Mordechai Estate was raided day before yesterday -- y’know, Everett Mordechai, the pharmaceutical tycoon. Family killed, the guy himself missing. Anyway, in the process…” he fished in the breast pocket of his jacket slung over the back of the booth, pulled out a single glossy brochure sheet and unfolded it on the table, “they took a ‘Deco Install’, which is an Immersive Art Installation -- Model DV:IAI6, to be precise. DVIAIs are rare and expensive and I’d like to get this one back.”

Jet dragged the brochure sheet to him with a finger. It was an advertisement by the Fontbleu company showing a holographic interface consisting of a wall frame attached to a ground platform, projecting a piece of classic art from Earth that he couldn’t care less about much less identify. In the top right corner was a smaller picture of the memorydrive that presumably plugged into the frame and color variants guaranteed to complement any decor. 

“What’s so special about this...dev-eye-whatever? What’s it to you?” Jet grumbled and pushed the paper back.

“I worked on this one. So, sentimental, I guess,” Gideon smiled sheepishly. 

Jet was both disappointed in, surprised by, and put off by his openness. But, he supposed it was low-risk for such a stupid errand, and this guy was not known for having kept a tight grip on his inheritance. “Right.” He barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Do you know who broke in or why they’d bother taking it?”

“Pretty things always get taken, reason or not,” Faye chimed in. Their coffees arrived and she accepted hers eagerly, stirring the decorated froth with the same sort of tiny spoon.

“True,” Gideon said. He finished off his first coffee and moved on to his second. He drank it black, without sugar, and Jet would have preferred having received the same rather than the sickly concoction Faye had decided he wanted. “They don’t know who broke in but they think Mordechai might have been involved with the Red Dragon Syndicate, possibly a financial backer. Now that the RDS doesn’t have a monopoly on the criminal underworld who knows what else has sprung up to try to fill the void -- getting some quick cash from a Deco Install is an easy boon anybody with half a brain would take.”

“Oh? How much is the Model 6 worth?” Faye asked. 

Jet rolled his eyes again. “Thinking about becoming an art dealer in your spare time, Faye?”

“It’s just useful contextual information is all,” she said innocently.

Gideon hesitated. “I can’t disclose the exact amount. I’m not positive myself to be honest -- I’m just a programmer -- but it’s a lot. TH has only made eight DV:IAIs and the art we curate is very selective and exclusive to the clients Fontbleu contracts us for. Each one is unique. I mean, the AI in them alone…” he looked up, shook his head, “Sorry.” Another pause, and he added glumly, “She’s probably on the black market by now.”

“‘She’?” Faye repeated with a teasingly musical lilt.

It was Gideon’s turn to roll his eyes. “Art-programmer habit. Most of Model 6’s immersion pieces were female, anyway. Like I said, I’m sentimental.”

The three of them resettled, drank. 

“There’s something else,” Gideon said, turning the white porcelain cup in his hands.

“Of course there is,” Jet grumbled.

“If she’s on the black market, they will have had to scrub her serial number. That’ll trigger a factory-setting firewall that won’t let her be opened. I’ll need to go with you so I can verify it’s her.”

Both Jet and Faye simultaneously made exasperated noises and slumped in their seats; the mutual feeling gave Jet at least a grain of momentary satisfaction. “We’re not a taxi, and we’re not bodyguards.”

Gideon pressed his lips firmly together. “No, but I’m the one with the money. It’s only temporary, and a small price to pay, I think, for accomplishing an easy job.” He paused. “Please.”

In his peripheral vision Jet saw Faye roll her head on the back of the booth to look at him; he glanced her way and sighed, running a hand down his face.


	3. Getaway

**Chapter 3: Getaway**

_ Outskirts of Tharsis, Mars _

 

Gideon felt a little strange driving two bounty hunters in his cramped hovercar, and actually a little embarrassed by how much junk he had to sweep out of the way in order for them to fit. The economical, compact model had seemed such a wise decision at the time. The abrupt blare of the music he’d forgotten to turn down was the cherry on top.

Now that they were heading to Block C of Waterside Court Apartments, he wondered if he’d left anything else embarrassing out in plain view before he left. Every so often this thought was pierced by the greater and more urgent knowledge that he had actually hired a pair of bounty hunters, and needed to pick up the pace to find the Model 6 before she was too far buried. Not to mention that this far to the edge of the habitable zone, Mars’ colder nights were more obvious.

As Gideon swiped his keycard at the gate between the parking lot and the complex, Jet asked, “So how is it that Harper Chung’s grandson --” When Gideon half-turned to correct him, Jet held up a hand, “ _ Step _ -grandson, yeah, yeah -- how is it that you live in a run-down apartment complex on the edge of the habitable zone, working as an art-programmer and driving an old Patalpa? Guy like you should’ve been set for life, with nothing standing between you and your grandpa’s fortune.”

It’d been a while since anybody had asked. Gideon almost forgot the customary answer and was grateful for the quick walk to the elevator and the pass of another resident that kept them quiet. “I had something different in mind for my life. Plus I was young, and who’s good at money when they’re young?” He jogged to the closing elevator doors and held them for the pair that followed. One of the strip lights inside was flickering on and off with a  _ ting-pop _ . He pushed the button for the second floor.

“So, what -- gambled it all away? Blew it all on a stock deal that didn’t work out?” Faye pressed.

“Something like that,” Gideon deflected. “But I’ve got enough to pay you, which is what matters, right?”

His apartment wasn’t as messy as he’d feared, but he was still reluctant to turn on too many lights -- the pair of small spotlights over the kitchen island immediately to their left would do. Their silhouettes were reflected on the sliding glass doors immediately opposite that led to the balcony outside, framed by broken vertical blinds.

“Well, this isn’t the worst bachelor pad I’ve seen,” Faye commented.

“Give me a minute,” he said. 

His dining table had been dragged closer to the built-in desk and taken over by his two laptops and piles of dirty plates, towers of glasses, staggered stacks of old art and programming books, and rolled ‘storyboard’ blueprints. His work satchel was still on the chair where he’d lumped it Friday night and he opened the flap, taking a few things out, putting a few things in. He heard Jet make a phone call.

_ It’s happening -- this is really happening. How long will it take? Maybe I should grab some clothes. _ He left the bag where it sat and went to the open doorway leading to his bedroom. The room was dark except for thin strips of neon orange light where the closed blinds didn’t quite meet, and a little blue square beside his bed from his media dock; he’d left his music on low and it murmured a symphony at him. 

The shadowy mouth of his open closet moved. In the next breath, Gideon saw the glint of a gun barrel and ducked -- the shot pierced a framed print above the double-sided fireplace and crashed to the hearth, shattering glass everywhere. He knew enough to keep moving, and shots followed him back into the livingroom, where Jet and Faye were taking out their own guns. More shots came off the balcony into the room, shattering the glass doors. Two more figures were coming into the room. Faye ducked behind the kitchen island and returned fire.

“Let’s go!” Jet barked. 

Gideon grabbed his satchel, and tried to grab one of the laptops but a bullet skimmed his hand and sent the small machine bouncing into his dishes. He hissed and wrestled with the first intruder’s sudden grip on his shirt. He managed to get an elbow to the intruder’s stomach, and Jet followed with a swift kick. It gave them enough distance for Jet to manhandle Gideon out the door. 

The three of them bolted for the stairs. Gideon’s heart was back to racing again and he regretted forgoing the gym membership this year. More shots ricocheted around them in the stone stairwell, forcing them to duck and take the steps two at a time. The door at the bottom slammed into the wall as they burst through it into the parking lot. It took them a frantic moment to remember where Gideon had parked.

“So is this related or have you just pissed off that many people?” Jet yelled at him.

“I have no clue who these fucks are, okay!” Gideon pulled his key out of his pocket and unlocked the hovercar; they jumped in, slammed the doors shut and he sped off as fast as he was able, scratching other vehicles and getting a shot-out passenger window in the process. He was sitting on his satchel and its contents were digging into him, but there wasn’t time to care. 

“Did you get a good look at them?” Faye, beside him, asked, though Gideon wasn’t sure to which of them the question was directed.

“No,” they both answered. 

“They can’t be too smart if they didn’t have the exits blocked off,” Faye said and reloaded her gun. 

“We’re docked by the shipping yard,” Jet said.

Gideon wracked his brain to figure out directions, since it’d been a while since he’d gone that way -- at this point he was willing to make a straight line and forget traffic signals or even roads. He turned onto the freeway. 

“Could someone else think you know about the Model 6, or want to stop you from getting it back?” Jet asked. “Think.”

Gideon dripped the steering wheel harder. “Um, I really don’t know. I don’t know, okay?” he burst. “I mean, it’s possible they could find out I worked on her but I don’t see how they’d know I’d be of any use. And they can’t realistically think I was a threat --”

“We’re being followed,” Faye said and turned back around.

“Shit,” Gideon slapped the wheel. He fluttered the gas and the brake to deal with the sharper turns as he got back off the freeway in favor of a less obvious artery. In his rearview mirror he could see two black vehicles picking up speed and weaving between traffic to get closer.

“That firewall you talked about -- would they know about it and would they know that only someone who worked at your job can get past it? Is that a possible motive?” Jet continued.

Gunfire peppered his trunk and new lights illuminated on the dash. 

“Can we talk about this later? Like when we’re in space?” Gideon shouted.

Tharsis Bay abruptly reared in front of them, and Gideon made a sharp left on the road running parallel to it. The docks were ahead, red aerial warning lights blinking sleepily at them. While many craft used the concrete-sided bay for landing, the docks themselves then rose gently out of the water as a wide plain of tarmac covered with bays on one side for the well-endowed and open parking for those less fortunate. A few tuggers sped this way and that in between taxing larger craft out of the water and the smaller craft from the cramped rows in which they sat.

With little turns or obstacles the Patalpa made an easy target, and Gideon groaned when Jet shot out the back window in order to sight better while Faye leaned out of the passenger window to return fire. “What? You’re not going to be using this if you make it back to Mars,” she said.

“‘If’?” Gideon repeated. 

“Head for the west edge close to the ramp. It’s the dark double-fin trawler,” Jet said and lurched aside as a bullet impacted the upholstery. “Can you go over water?”

“Not with this model,” Gideon said. The engine was close to overheating too but he wasn’t about to bring that up. 

He heard a crash behind him and risked a glance to see that one of their pursuers had run through the barrier and into the water below. The other seemed to have taken this as a challenge -- Gideon could hear the rev of the engine as it gained on them and, shortly, the Patalpa bucked as it was rammed into from behind. Gideon struggled to keep them from skidding out of control, which was harder to do with a hovercar than a traditional wheeled vehicle. He was grateful for the sharp right turn into the docks, but not for the toll barriers in his way. 

_ Nothing for it, _ he told himself and veered into one that was closed, earning shouts from the toll operators and a warning siren as they crashed through the comb-like barrier.

“Oh, we’ll make a criminal of you yet!” Faye said appreciatively.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jet said.

Puddles of exhaust condensation and water from the bay shivered underneath the Patalpa’s radiators as they sped down the lines of parked spacecraft; Gideon wove between the landing gear of the taller ones but their pursuer was unperturbed. He spotted what Jet had pointed out to be the  _ Bebop _ at the end of a row, near the ramp that led into the water, and raced for it. Pale smoke began to shred out from the gaps in the hood of the hovercar and the dash light began to blink more urgently, and then the smoke grew darker. His side mirror was shot off.

_ This is happening -- this is happening. _

At last they screeched to a halt half-under the  _ Bebop _ ’s belly -- Gideon didn’t bother killing the engine. Faye and Jet were already out of the Patalpa and using it as cover while Jet lowered the gangway. Gideon heard Faye tease something about a remote start and receive a biting response, but he was too distracted by the black car barreling down on them to make it out precisely. Engines roaring to life kicked up damp pieces of crud into his eyes and whipped wisps of hair around his face in the hot air. His satchel beating against his thigh, he sped around the Patalpa and needed no prompting to climb the gangway before it was even fully down. 

Something bit into Gideon’s back and he fell forward onto the worn steel. Jet dragged him the rest of the way by the collar and he saw Faye’s white boots beside him as the gangway rose again. He was left unceremoniously in a small bay to cringe and groan while Jet went to the helm. Faye crouched in front of him and he averted his eyes from the view up her shorts -- easy to do, since the slightest move of his shoulderblades or torso (or anything, really) was sending stabs of pain throughout his body harsh enough to make him close his eyes.

“Oh good, you got shot in the back,” she said. “What’s that you were implying about not being a liability?”

“Shit,” Gideon let his head rest on the floor. His teeth nearly vibrated out of his gums as the Bebop rumbled for takeoff. He heard the distant  _ pings _ of bullets on the hull. 

“Come on, let’s see if you’re paralyzed,” she said and helped him attempt to stand.

It took a lot of wincing and several weak steps, but they made it into what Gideon could only describe as a livingroom with a TV and two yellow leather sofas. They tottered a little down the six steps into it as the Bebop made a steep curve, but eventually she was able to drop him on one of the sofas. He took off his satchel and let it rest on the floor.

“Shirt off please,” she said next. 

He begrudgingly complied, but sucked in his stomach as much as he was able. He turned to give her a better view in the light.

“Just under your right shoulderblade -- you got lucky. Hang on and I’ll see if I can patch you up but I can’t get that bullet out, okay?”

Gideon hung his head. “I’ll deal.” He looked up, however, as Jet emerged from the bridge. “Not being chased anymore, right?”

“No,” Jet conceded, “but we don’t know if it’ll stay that way.” He put a hand on one hip. “You’re attracting a lot more attention than I thought. Sure you’re not leaving anything out?”

“I swear, I know as much as you do,” Gideon said. “The only thing I can think of is that somebody saw me leave the crime scene when I went to go see if the Model 6 had been stolen. I snuck in. I didn’t see anyone, though.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t seen, or followed,” Jet said.

Faye returned with a rather sparse-looking first aid kit, a rag over her shoulder and a two-thirds-empty bottle of vodka. Before he had time to question her, she uncorked the bottle with her teeth and poured its contents liberally down his back and he cut off a yelp, feeling his chest shiver with the pain. She began to wipe his back with the rag -- which he hoped was clean -- and gave him the bottle. He wasn’t much of a drinker but he took a generous sip and coughed at the burn.

“We’re not space-bound,” Jet continued. “I’ve set a course for Alba since the black market has a stronger foothold there, and it’s a likelier destination for anything stolen from such a prominent house as Everett Mordechai’s. Before we were so rudely interrupted, I was on a call with a buddy of mine in the police force regarding the case -- says it’s being speculated that whoever raided Mordechai’s might have been looking for the Red Eye formula.” He ran a hand through his beard. “Apparently the police were due to raid Mordechai’s anyway because they finally had proof that he was a primary manufacturer of Red Eye.”

Gideon continued to wince as Faye cleaned him up; the vodka wasn’t a pleasant smell either and it was soaking into the back of his pants. “But what does that have to do with the Model 6?”

‘No way of knowing yet, but any context is good,” Jet said. He turned away to return to the bridge. “Fifteen minutes tops, and there better not be any more surprises, Chung.”


	4. The Taproot

**Chapter 4: The Taproot**

_ Alba, Mars _

 

Walking was far more painful than Gideon had bargained for. Bad enough in of itself, but Jet seemed to have landed on the opposite side of Alba than the dealer he apparently had in mind -- Gideon wondered if it was intentional, to make him regret tagging along. He was determined not to be a liability, even if he had a negative track record already.

He’d been a boy the last time he’d been in Alba; he wasn’t sure whether he’d simply forgotten what it had looked like, or if it’d simply grown in the last decade. He was used to things not changing.

The air smelt of diesel and Martian nutmeg. The streets were less crowded than Gideon thought he remembered, but then, he supposed everything seemed much  _ more _ when you were a child. Much of the inner city that they were heading through now had been pedestrianized and as a result, the diesel smell from the outer industrial limits was soon replaced by that of an open-air market that had taken over one of the central parks. The shouts of the vendors was muffled by the wall of carefully-maintained trees that were, no doubt, more valuable than the skyscrapers dwarfing them by virtue of their propagation cost.

“You realize how large Alba is, right?” Faye was saying with a groan. Seemed Gideon wasn’t the only one unhappy about all the walking. “This will take us forever.”

“It’s less conspicuous if we get where we’re going coming from this side,” Jet said.

Gideon thought about asking for clarification, but didn’t want to draw too much of the older man’s ire. He assumed it’d become obvious soon enough.

They crossed one of the few roads still marked for vehicles, blocked at either end by bollards that lowered to allow an off-duty ambulance to pass on its way into the hospital garage to their right. Less than a block over, and Jet suddenly veered down the delivery ramp of a supermarket. Gideon had a little more trouble with limiting his pain on the slope but tried to grin and bear it. He was surprised when, after a quick glance to determine there wasn’t anyone else around, Jet opened a metal door in the side of the ramp. Gideon and Faye went first into the dark, narrow corridor.

When Jet closed the door behind them, plunging them into total darkness, Gideon felt a mild panic begin to make his skin crawl. He swallowed. Not here. Not now. Just, take it slow. Don’t think about it. He tried to ignore the feeling of the walls closing in on him, and said, “There was a camera trained on the ramp.”

“Defunct,” Jet replied. “For show only.” Gideon felt him pass to take the lead again.

Gideon fished out his keys and turned the ring around the lens of the tiny flashlight on the keyring and pointed it ahead. It barely illuminated a foot in front of him. Faye laughed. 

Thankfully the corridor was shorter than Gideon expected, but he was less thankful for the suspicious hole that it ended in. Jet turned and began to climb down into it. 

“Farther underground?” Faye groaned again and followed. “I feel like a sewer rat.”

“You’re not much better than one so you’d best stop complaining.”

“Charming as always.”

Their voices sank away from him. Gideon steeled himself, remembering his purpose, and put his flashlight between his teeth and followed them down the ladder. Rust came away on his fingers and his surroundings -- he tried not to think about how close the walls were -- were decidedly damp. He was distracted by the repetitive contraction and relaxation of his shoulder muscles pulling on the wound in his back and with a particularly bad pull, the keys fell out of his mouth and his firefly of blue-white light span downward, hitting Faye and Jet on the way down.

“Sorry,” he hissed.

There were grumbles in reply, but Gideon could at least see the bottom of the tunnel now. Where it ended was a space not quite big enough for the three of them; he barely had room to bend to pick up his keys. Luckily Jet opened another door before Gideon’s heart began to truly hammer against his ribs -- fresh-ish air engulfed them and they stepped out into the glorious space beyond.

The ceiling was low, but the antechamber was wide. They stepped out onto buffed concrete under dazzling striplights stretching like a layline to their left and right. After his eyes adjusted Gideon determined it was an underground strip mall of sorts, with small specialist boutique shops running along the far wall immediately opposite. Their side of the hall was vacant. Every so often a store had been veiled with a roll-down steel shutter adorned with graffiti, or the lights were off and windows barred, but a few businesses seemed open and active. There were only a few other people coming and going -- criminal types, Gideon hesitated to label, much like themselves. He was surprised by how clean the space was. He turned off his flashlight and pocketed his keys.

“What is this place?” Faye asked.

“The southern branch of Alba’s black market. Commonly called the Taproot,” Jet said and took them right.

“The Taproot?”

“Generates the most revenue, so it’s a lifeblood of sorts. The Black Guild that oversees all black market operations also has its office here -- divvies out taxation, handles shopfront rentals, policing, etc.”

“Wouldn’t think a criminal underworld would have taxes or any kind of local government,” Gideon mused as he examined the shopfronts they passed.

“A criminal underworld isn’t necessarily one of anarchy,” Jet said. “It just has a structure that goes against the upper-world status quo. Humans -- even criminals like us -- like structure, after all.”

Gideon remembered his grandfather saying something similar about humans liking structure, and how it was that structure was the key to success -- be it in capitalizing on one’s own use of it, or exploiting others’ need of it. Harper Chung frequently cited structure and discipline as the root of his success, and lamented Gideon’s lack of it in his own life.

“‘You are a windblown leaf’,” he muttered his grandfather’s chiding words to himself, “‘and humankind has had its fill of drifters -- it now needs those who will plant roots and provide forests.’”

Faye looked over her shoulder. “Hmm?”

Gideon remembered himself. “Nothing.” 

Jet entered an emerald-painted shopfront -- he remembered the color of the trees in his grandfather’s precious arboretum, where he used to spend the summer, and this memory was chased by another of one of the dresses the Model 6 wore in her depiction of a Lempicka. Gideon paused to read ‘The Emporium’ painted in gold letters above the door. The windows were covered in intricate black ironwork and the light was low inside. He hurried to follow Faye.

The exterior had been misleading; although Gideon found himself on a worn, fringed oriental rug, most of the shelves lining the small boutique were temporary wire-and-bracket ones and bare besides except for a clear plastic tub here and there. There was a stack of rubber tires in one corner, on which a cat lounged and opened one eye at their entry. Immediately opposite the door was the sales desk where an old woman with frizzy hair and a pink crocheted poncho also slept, a flatscreen TV hung above him quietly humming a soap opera. 

“Generates the most revenue, huh?” Faye commented.

The old woman was startled by the cat jumping off the tires onto the counter, and she blinked at the three of them as it headbutted her chin. “May I help you?” she asked.

Faye laid a hand on Jet’s arm and asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve had any memorydrives come in recently? We’re in the market for one.”

The woman raised her eyebrows at them; the droopiness of her brow pulled back somewhat, Gideon could see that her eyes were milky with cataracts -- he wondered if she could see at all.

When she didn’t respond, Gideon stepped forward and clarified, “Any residential units? A Deco-Install, maybe?” He was surprised by the note of desperation in his voice and wished he’d done a better job of acting cool.

She suddenly looked tired and waved a hand at the wall, there three tubs stood overflowing with what looked like junk. Gideon smiled at her nonetheless and thanked her, heading over to them. After a few minutes of rifling, however, among the various pieces of what was indeed junk he had found not one, but five memorydrives. As he’d suspected they might, the thieves had stripped the drives of their casing -- which would have helped him narrow down their age and manufacturer -- to the point where they were octopi of chips and wires.

“Find it?” Jet grunted over his shoulder.

Gideon passed his eyes over the bundles in his hands. “I...I have no way of really telling in this condition. I mean, we don’t even know that this is the spot she would have been sold to.”

“The Emporium has the monopoly on memory devices,” Jet said. “The Guild enforces that other brokers refuse to buy them. It’s the same with other merchandise for other stores -- it’s a way of evening-out the playing field for the market down here. If it isn’t one of these, your Model 6 or whatever hasn’t entered the market at all yet.”

Gideon held the mess closer to his face, as if it would help. As a programmer he never saw the hardware, though he knew vaguely what he was looking at from reading he’d done here and there out of curiosity. It was frustrating not to be sure which was the business end, but one thing  _ was  _ sure.

“I’m not going to take the chance of picking the wrong one,” he said. Gideon turned and brought all five to the counter, where the old woman was blinking at him sleepily. “I’ll take all five.” He laid them before her like an offering to an ancient deity, glancing over them, lifting a wire here and there, “I’d say...considering their condition...three hundred.” 

The old woman rolled her eyes and pulled a manual receipt book and a pen out of a drawer. While she wrote up the transaction Gideon scanned the deskspace; it didn’t take his eyes long to be drawn to the small, ornately-framed postcard print of the Angel Gabriel from Da Vinci’s  _ The Virgin of the Rocks _ next to the cash register, partially hidden by an empty mug and the new resting spot of the black and white cat. 

He smiled again, pointed to the print. “That’s actually one of my favorites.”

The old woman paused and looked him in the eye. She seemed the most lucid she’d been since they came in, though Gideon found it hard to read her expression. 

“Yeah,” he wiped his nose. “My mother hung it in my nursery when I was little. The detail in the curls and the robe is fantastic obviously but the best part is how Da Vinci captured that expression -- you can’t quite tell whether it’s knowing, or sad, or happy, or beatific, you know? Humanizes this untouchable unearthly being.” 

She stared at him, her small lips retreating inside her mouth and her eyes watering under a pinched brow. Then she opened her mouth as if to speak.

Gideon heard the door behind them open, followed shortly by a pair of footsteps and a nasally voice exclaiming, “Mama Manda, y’got the goods?”

The old woman seemed to shut down again, looking down at her hands.

“We’re here for Uncle Gregoire’s Deco-Install for the casino, remember?” The taller of the two unsavory characters came into Gideon’s right-hand periphery. He was wearing a hideously bright neon green shirt that Gideon couldn’t look at for too long; he was discomfited more, however, by the term ‘Deco-Install’. 

The old woman glanced at Gideon and got up from her stool. She unlatched a portion of the counter and swung it up, waving the two new arrivals through to the back room behind a faded blue curtain.

“Thanks, Mama Manda!” said the second and placed a stuffed large envelope in front of her.

Once they’d disappeared, however, she carefully and quietly pulled out a padded envelope from under the counter and shoved it into Gideon’s hands, waving insistently at them to go. She raised a finger to her lips when Gideon started to object, and instead grabbed one of the memorydrives he held, putting it under the counter.

“Thanks for your business,” Faye said loudly for effect and dragged Gideon away by the elbow. Jet was already halfway out the door. 

Over his shoulder Gideon could just about see Mama Manda waving at them through the wrought-iron-covered windows as they retreated. With their back now to The Emporium, Gideon fished in the envelope he’d been given to peek at its contents -- another memorydrive, to be sure, and also without its casing. With a sigh he shoved the other four memorydrives he held into the envelope too, feeling guilty about not having paid a cent but also anxious to know if one of these was the Model 6.

It didn’t help that, as he led them back to the little door in the wall that’d take them back to the surface, Jet said, “Hope one of those is what you’re looking for.”

 

* * *

 

Back on board the _ Bebop _ , as they came into the livingroom Gideon finally worked up the courage to say, “I doubt I have the equipment needed to verify these drives.”

There was silence. Gideon cringed.

Having just sat down on the sofa, Faye’s head rolled on the back of it to squint at him behind her. “What’s all that junk you took from your apartment, then?”

“Me being optimistic I guess,” he said with an askew smile to cover his embarrassment. 

“Good thing I figured you wouldn’t be as prepared as you’d like to be,” Jet called. 

Gideon frowned and craned his neck to try and see Jet in the gloom of the bridge. Judging by the various beeps and chirps and the warming of the thrusters, it seemed a course was being plotted.

“Where are we going now?” he asked, though the more pressing question on his mind was,  _ Why aren’t you just washing your hands of me already? _

“To see an old friend,” Jet said.


	5. Enka

**Chapter 5: Enka  
** _ Earth _

 

Jet remained in his seat for longer than normal, listening to the engines lower their whirring into a hum, deeper and deeper until they guttered out. Only then did he move back into the living area. It hadn’t been comfortable spending the entire ride from Mars to Earth in the  _ Bebop _ ’s cockpit, but he wanted to avoid talking and he would have had to if he’d wanted to retreat to his room. The quiet of the room had told him he could move safely. He stretched.

Chung was asleep in Spike’s spot on the sofa in the fetal position, injured back out to the room; Jet was surprised the descent hadn’t woken him up. Faye was nowhere to be seen and he hoped she hadn’t taken the worst possible opportunity to take the cash and finally leave him forever -- he wasn’t in the mood for a chase.

He paused by the sofa and looked down at Chung. While he wasn’t regretting taking the job like he normally did -- it was fairly straightforward so far -- that was what concerned him. It was almost too good to be true. An honest if bumbling idiot of a client? Money up front? The goods already technically in-hand, maybe, without too much of an issue? The fact that Chung reminded Jet of his much younger self before he got out of the Academy was loathsome, too.

His eyes narrowed.  _ You want to get such an apparently priceless thing back for purely sentimental reasons? After you blew all your inheritance? _

“He’s not up yet?” came Faye’s unusually soft voice. She came down the steps into the room drying her hair with a towel.

Jet shook his head. “Probably not used to this much excitement.” He paused. “How about you go get her? I’ll wait here.”

She eyed him. “Bonding?”

He crossed his arms and fully turned to her. “Since when have you been the type to want to take in strays?”

She hushed him. “I’m not.” She waved a hand and went back up the stairs, smiling smugly. “And you didn’t answer my question. I’ll be back.”

* * *

_ Gideon walked into the Programming office, which was empty as though the crew had moved out or hadn’t yet moved in. It was dark except for pinky-peach light that came in through the window to his right on the external wall; they always kept the blinds closed so he’d almost forgotten there was a window there at all. As he wandered into it, feeling the faint warmness on his skin, he realized that the imaging mat was still there. _

_ A mere step onto it and its surface glowed pale blue, flakes of it rising like disturbed dust that floated around him and playfully eddied around his legs and arms, coaxing him forward. He obeyed. More and more of it rose from the mat into the air and mingled with the sunset’s colors, shooting it through with red, ivory and green. The flakes grouped together into ribbons and clouds to form shapes, crude at first, and then sketching more confidently into animals, plants, figures. They made a garden for him to walk through -- a personal Eden. He was happy. _

_ Like the origami he used to try to form as a child, the garden began to fold in on itself around him, organic curves becoming angular architecture that flickered as he passed through it. It reformed itself at a single point beside him and he was surprised by a sudden warmth in his hand -- it was another, holding his. He traced the arm, which glowed like porcelain illuminated from within, to the figure, but couldn’t make out its gender or identity. Nevertheless he felt safe, comforted. _

Gideon was woken by something...licking? his face. He groaned and attempted to turn away, but the sudden movement pulled at the wound in his shoulder. He winced and forced his eyes open. Staring directly at him behind a wet snout was a pair of brown eyes sitting in caramel-colored fur. Gideon sat up. It was a dog -- a stunted one of some kind -- that began to pant and wag its short little tail. Lounging across the back of the sofa also looking at him, however, was a spindly redheaded teenager. When they sat up and yelled over their shoulder that he was awake, Gideon realized it was a girl.

“Finally,” Faye said and came back into the room with two bowls filled with something steaming.

“Have we…?” Gideon began.

“Landed? Yes. We’re on Earth. Gideon this is Ed, and Ein,” Faye said and gestured to the girl and the dog with one bowl. The girl, Ed, slid off the back of the couch onto the seat next to him, nudging him with a bony knee. Ein chirped a bark at him when he looked its way. “Ed this is Gideon, the client we were telling you about.” Faye set a bowl in front of each of them -- noodles in a clear broth -- and sat down herself.

“Hello,” Gideon said.  _ Why are we on Earth? Was I asleep for that long? _

“Ed has worked with us on a couple of occasions.” Jet entered now, too, wearing an apron and carrying another two bowls and what looked like a dog bowl. “She’ll solve your problem.”

“I’ve got a lot of problems,” Gideon muttered good-naturedly and wrapped his hands around the bowl. It was warm and combined with the smell, his stomach began to wake up. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. It may have been the pastry Samantha had brought him Friday morning.

“You’re the one with the firewalled Deviah,” Ed grinned at him. She began slurping down her noodles. 

“Err, yeah.” He was surprised to hear the in-industry colloquialism. “Who…?”

Jet sat with them and handed Faye her bowl, then put down the bowl for Ein, who jumped down from the other side of Gideon to go eat. “You may be more familiar with the alias Radical Edward.”

“Long time, long time,” Ed said through her mouthful and Gideon’s shock.

“Barely six months, Ed,” Faye said.

“That’s a long time!”

“And you…” Gideon stared at her. “You can actually…” He sat back with his bowl and looked at the ceiling, “What am I saying, of course you can if you wanted.” Another moment’s thought, and he returned his gaze to her, “How much?”

She shrugged. “It’s fun. Won’t take long.”

“Eat first, then play,” Jet said. “No sense getting dinner everywhere.”

Gideon’s heart beat a little faster. So they could actually verify if the drive was the Model 6? He could actually see her?

* * *

Two hours later, after Jet and Ed rigged up what looked to Gideon like some old topography equipment to a laptop and half of Ed’s face disappeared behind a pair of goggles, there had still been no results. Ed had managed to hook up the memorydrive that Mama Manda had given him, but noted that it had been, unsurprisingly, incorrectly disconnected and was therefore damaged; the damage had to be repaired first before Ed could tackle the Fontbleu factory firewall.

Gideon was proud of himself for having avoided pacing, or otherwise showing impatience. But there was only so much of the tiny-ass TV that he could watch. He got up and carefully walked over to the dark corner where Ed worked cross-legged on the floor, Ein snoring against her hunched back. 

“Hey, um, how’s it looking?”

It took a couple more prompts and a tap on her shoulder, and then another further moment, for Ed to answer. “Seen a lot,” she said. “The Deviah.” Her voice was oddly grave.

“Wait, you’re past the firewall?” Gideon exclaimed. For how long? Why hadn’t she said anything?

“Firewall kaput.”

“Then,” Gideon’s brain struggled to catch up, to shake off the sluggishness of the past hour, “Do you see any kind of identifier? Anything about Fontbleu or the model number or a serial --”

Ed pulled off her goggles and practically smashed them against his face. “You look. I don’t understand any of it but it’s horrible.” 

Frowning, Gideon used both hands to hold the goggles against his face, and knelt down next to Ed. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the images flashing across the viewpath, partially because they were skewered and the colors kept inverting every few seconds. Before he got too sucked into what was happening, though, he verified that the tiny number in the bottom-right did indeed read ‘Model DV:IAI6’. He smiled and whispered a ‘yes’ to himself.  His smile quickly dropped, however, when he refocused on the images.

_ All we can see is her videostream -- her memorybank. How far back does this go? he wondered. There’s no timestamp if we’re just reviewing like this. But… _ He waved a hand, “Hey, go to the most recent data and cycle back.”

The images sped up into a blur, and then stopped for a few seconds. Gideon was looking at a distorted figure taking up much of the screen, reaching forward and down -- judging by the scrap of ornate carpet, it was one of the intruders to the Mordechai Estate and was the moment her drive was pulled. The images began to cycle backwards: the intruder stepping backward to reveal the crumpled body of Everett Mordechai’s young daughter, the desk being raided, the gunshots and bullets whizzing through the Model 6. Everett Mordechai disappearing through a hidden door in the bookcase, leaving his daughter behind. The first shots, then the glass of the massive window levitating back into place. 

The view was consumed by static for the most part, broken up with blurs. Then half the screen became clear, allowing him to see the bottom half -- the desk in Mordechai’s study. He saw papers passed back and forth, papers laid out, sample vials in a briefcase.

“Stop,” he said.

The image froze.

“Zoom by twenty, second-fifth quadrant.”

The image enlarged, showing him a better view of the paper. The optical zoom wasn’t magnificent, but he couldn’t miss the label ‘Benzofuran-dopaphoryl Tythane’, which he was fifty percent sure was the pharmaceutical name for Red Eye. He’d have to verify.

Though he wasn’t sure why, Gideon said, “Keep going back.”

The image stuttered into motion again. It wasn’t long before much of the view was clouded by the Model 6’s various transformations, which he could only see in part, and the occasional change in angle out to the room. Common in all of the sequences, however, was Everett Mordechai -- sometimes merely sitting on the desk, other times interacting in a small expected way with the art, but other times most certainly more than that. 

Gideon lowered the goggles. “That’s enough.” He looked at Ed, who was rubbing Ein’s belly. His eyebrows pinched and rose -- how old was she? “How far back did you view?”

She shrugged. “A year I think.” He gave back the goggles, but she didn’t put them on.

“Is it the right one?” Faye called from the sofa, but did not look up.

It took him a moment to put away what he’d seen. “Yeah. Thankfully.” He moistened his lips. “Say, what’s the scientific name for Red Eye. Anyone remember?”

“Benzofuran-dopaphoryl tythane, if memory serves me right,” said Jet. “Why?”

Gideon didn’t answer right away; he sat down fully and leaned back on his hands, staring into the glow of the laptop screen between them. After a minute Ein came and flopped into his lap.

“You want to talk to her, huh?” Ed said quietly. When he looked her way she leaned back on her hands as well. “I think she wants to talk, too. She’s sad.”

“Sad?” Gideon frowned more deeply.

“About the girl and the woman. About what that man did to her. About how she couldn’t do anything. She’s sad about who she is.”

“Who?” 

Gideon looked up to see that Faye had walked over and now stood above them with her hand on her hip. 

“Her name is Dee,” Ed smiled.

* * *

Gideon had retreated to the navigation room to dwell on what Ed had said and what he’d seen -- it was the only relatively private room that didn’t seem off-limits to him on board. Even fifteen minutes later he felt unreasonably shaken by the situation, sparked when Ed said that the Model 6 somehow acquired a name for herself. Had it been given? Had she chosen it for herself? Did it matter?

Of course the imagery hadn’t been pleasant. It was bad enough to see a mother and child being abandoned by their husband and father, only to be gunned down, but then to have a chaser of that man interacting in lewd ways with the art, making the art do things in turn…

_ No -- to make Dee do that, _ he corrected himself and his stomach turned. He took a deep breath.

Then there was the matter of the Red Eye formula. After turning the possibility over in his head that what Jet said was true -- that the speculations were true -- that whoever raided the Estate had been looking for the Red Eye formula, he was even more ill at ease now. Of course they had no way of knowing if the raiders had found what they were looking for, but if they hadn’t, then here it was. And he’d been the stupid ass to go find her after being targeted himself.

_ They might realize that if they find me, they find her, and with her -- potentially a glimpse of something useful. Her value has just skyrocketed beyond belief, as well as the risk of us holding on to her. _ He leaned against the navigation table and ran a hand down his face, wished he could have a real drink.  _ It’d be easier to just put her back into the black market and be done with it. Cut my losses. _

He remembered his dream of the Programming office and wished again for its familiarity and the sense of safety he’d felt in the garden, but it suddenly felt even more remote than a dream, just like as a child his adulthood and all its ambitions had seemed so far away. Not that those childhood imaginings felt any closer now he was thirty-four. Everything felt far away right now to Gideon, if he was frank. Except...

_ Ed said that Dee wanted to talk, _ he recalled,  _ but she can’t -- not yet. _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: For those curious, an enka is a Japanese musical genre, typically in the mode of a sentimental ballad. Thanks to everyone who's reading!


	6. See-Line Woman

**Chapter 6: See-Line Woman**

_ Tybalt Hoss & Associates: Acquisitions, Auctioneers, and Replicas; Tharsis, Mars _

_ (The next evening) _

 

The keypad let out a musical  _ blee-boop _ when Gideon swiped his keycard, and the lock clicked apart. He pushed into the chill of the Loading Room, keeping as calm as he could. He was surrounded by the sound of birdsong and trickling water, and scoffed -- another one of Geoff’s vintage ambient soundscape CDs. His quick pace took him down the narrow hall lined on one side with windows, beyond which were the servers, and toward the storage room at the far end. 

Past the server room was a small open office space with four vacant low-walled cubes; he paused at the opaque load-bearing pillar that pronounced the room break and peered past it -- sure enough Samantha was down here, leaning on Geoff’s desk and flirting half-heartedly with him. She was a creature of habit and Mondays were her late night, as well as update night. Geoff himself was seated with his back to Gideon, his curly hair bouncing as he enthused about something to Samantha that she seemed only vaguely interested in.

She clocked him, but gave no sign to the oblivious Geoff. Gideon decided to act casual and continued toward the storage room. His rushing reminded him that there was still a bullet in his back and he tried to walk more carefully. He wondered when he’d get a chance to remove it, before focusing again on his task.

_ If Samantha’s down here for updates Geoff gets out his secret stash of tequila, so this will be unlocked, _ he thought and reached for the door. Sure enough -- unlocked. He slipped inside and emerged a moment later with one of many heavy but relatively slim hard-shell briefcases, quietly closed the storage room door, and headed back for the main door. He was just about to reach it when he heard the clack of a shot glass being set down and the low tones of Samantha interrupting Geoff.

“Oh okay, well I’ll be here,” Geoff said.

“Good thing too,” she laughed half-heartedly and Gideon heard her heels making their way around the corner. 

Now that Geoff was more conscious of his surroundings Gideon decided two openings of the door would be too obvious, so he waited for her. She rounded the corner and made her way through the glow of the server room; her expression was surprisingly neutral and he was thankful for it. He followed her out and in the brighter light of the outer hall the polka-dots of her satin blouse shifted from a dull oxblood on gray to claret on ivory. The door clicked closed again behind them.

“Thought you called in sick?” she muttered. “And what’re you doing with that platform?”

“Walk and talk,” he said and kept walking to prove it. “I’m just borrowing it, promise.”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t tell you. Can you just --”

“Why can’t you tell me? What’s wrong?”

“I just need you to go to the bathroom like you probably just told lousy ol’ Geoff you were going to and pretend you didn’t see me, okay? When you come out I’ll be gone.”

“Come on he’s not that lousy.”

“Stop low-balling yourself -- he’s not good enough for you.”

“What makes -- hey, no, we’re not talking about Geoff. I want to know where you’re going with fifty million woolongs’ worth of equipment after you call in sick for the first time in a year.” She stopped in her tracks and crossed her arms.

Gideon steered Samantha toward the basement-level bathrooms, which was surprisingly difficult. “Please Sam, I need this favor and I don’t have much time. Please? I owe you. Come on.”

“This is about that Model 6 isn’t it? I fucking knew it,” she jabbed at the air with a finger, and this and Gideon jostling her made her loose mahogany waves bounce. She gave an almighty heave of a sigh. “Stop-stop-stop!” she hissed and swatted at him. “ _ Stop. _ ”

He did, just short of the women’s bathroom. She sighed again and pulled him inside -- luckily the ridiculously peach-colored room was empty. He nearly gagged on the overpowering scent of the potpourri. 

“You’re not licensed to carry,” she mumbled.

“Huh?”

“You’re not licensed to handle the platforms or any other equipment beyond the software discs, and those are upstairs only,” she explained. “You’ve not been here long enough. You get that license when you reach seven years. If you leave the building with this,” she tapped the case, “you’ll have the cops on you faster than you can get down the block. Let me do it and meet you.”

“What?” He was amazed. “How come you’ve got a carry license? You’ve been here the same amount of time I have!”

“Geoff,” she shrugged. “He pulled some strings so I can get to the better snack machines on the sixth floor.”

Amusing as this was, Gideon was hesitant. “I don’t know if I can let you do that. You’ll get in trouble too. It’s bad enough that you’re talking to me.”

“It’s fine, you’ll owe me,” she said, and by her tone he guessed she was reassuring herself, too. “Just meet me down the road at Benny’s and I’ll hand it over. Two conditions, though.” She held up a finger. “One, you have to take me to go see that new Marcia Day flick. No one else will go with me.”

He groaned despite himself.

“Dinner too, for groaning,” she poked him in the chest, then raised a second finger. “Two, and most importantly,” her voice became softer, “don’t do anything stupid with this, and I hope you’re not in some kind of trouble already. Don’t be out too long.”

Gideon hesitated, calming down. He met her eye. “ _ Summer with my Sister _ leaves town by next Monday, right? And it’s my turn to get coffee and breakfast this Friday. So, I’ll be back before then. Promise.” They smiled at one another.

* * *

Binoculars sank below the dash of a car parked on the corner of Throw and General Ives. Across the street, one Gideon Foka Chung -- last spotted having abandoned his Patalpa on the Tharsis docks in the company of the remaining crew of the Bebop -- crossed the street from the eight-story Tybalt Hoss auctionhouse and hurried in their direction unawares. He was empty-handed.

“Interesting.”

“Is he going back to the ship already?”

“Maybe. Follow him on foot first. Keep in touch. I’ll call the boss in the meantime. He probably doesn’t want any confrontation in Tharsis -- luckily this guy and the Bebop won’t want to hang around either.”

“Right.” One door opened and shut. 

* * *

Jet hung on one of the piston arms of the lowered gangway as Gideon came limping up, a slim briefcase in one hand. Though he looked and looked, his suspicious frown didn’t conjure any followers from the shadows that he could see.

“Huh. Pulled it off, didja?” he said. 

Gideon gave that goofy smile of his Jet tried not to like or find familiar. “I had help, but yeah. Shall we go?”

Jet turned away and tapped a fist on the button to raise the gangway. “Doubt your little heist will go unnoticed for too long. Best get as far from here as we can.” As the colors of the sunset narrowed to a thinner and thinner strip in the launch bay, he had to admit some relief that Gideon hadn’t got himself -- and them, he reminded himself -- in deeper trouble. He’d been reluctant to let Gideon go alone and that sentimentality made him uncomfortable; he raced the feeling by passing up Gideon on the way to the bridge. “This’ll add to your fee, you know,” he called back for good measure.

Really it’d been Faye’s push that they help Gideon with this next stage. To all intents and purposes they’d completed the job -- and Gideon had indeed paid them -- and they didn’t need to do anything else other than drop him back off in Tharsis. At least, he’d told himself it’d been Faye. Ed had decided to hang around for a bit, too, to ‘stretch her space legs’ as she put it, and also had to admit feeling nostalgic for the noise and weird sort of family they’d had those months ago.

Jet thought of Spike -- the last time he’d seen him. Abruptly, it was like he’d never thought of him since he’d been gone and maybe it was the echo of Faye and Ed trilling some nonsense at each other or Ein’s barking or the sound of fresh rain on the hull, but there was an awful ache in his chest that he couldn’t truly blame on heartburn from the first good dinner they’d had in a while.

He realized he had come to a stop in the dark hall. He put a hand on the cool, curved wall for the briefest of movements needed to steady himself.

“You all right?”

It was Gideon’s voice mingling with that of the girls and the dog, Jet knew -- not Spike. It’d never be Spike.

“Yeah, fine,” he grunted and carried on. 

* * *

They were on their way to Jupiter; Gideon had originally wanted to wait until they were out of hyperspace before attempting to open Dee for real this time, but he had grown too impatient. With Ed’s help they’d opened the briefcase and unfolded the five-by-five viewing platform in the dimmed light of the living space, and hooked it up to the laptop that was still, in turn, hooked up to the Model 6’s memorydrive. This briefcase model was smaller, being designed for portability for marketing showcases to potential clients, and had a weaker processor and holographic functionality, but it would do.

Jet and Faye had gathered around, with the former leaning on the back of the nearest sofa and the latter lounging back on the other; Ed finished running a few more tests and then swooped up Ein from his seat on the platform. She plopped them both behind their laptop.

“Ittybitty-punch-it-swiftly! Here we go! Deviah!” she said and tapped a couple of keys.

Gideon held his breath but the butterflies in his stomach began to swoop and scratch. The viewing platform glowed weakly white, as was typical, and after a few pulsing moments the main menu appeared in midair. He stepped forward and tapped through the most basic of commands, his index finger hovering for the briefest of moments over the final ‘Launch’ button.

The program began stylistically with the factory default: materialization from the head downward of a perfectly-proportioned naked, genderless figure, their hair slicked back as though by oil and their eyes colorless and unseeing. As the deliberately pixelated lines smoothed and became color from mere light, the figure became a woman as though being molded seamlessly from clay. A semi-transparent, shapeless iridescent dress tied at her neck was appeared over her nakedness, easily in the tradition of depictions of classical Grecian maidens with the exception of the matching hood pulled over her hair -- ‘to symbolize the reverence of creation’, Gideon had often heard quoted from Mr Hoss. 

An unfelt gust of wind blew back the hood of the model and at her dress, in the process blowing away pieces of her and changing her colors into new ones. Although they hadn’t programmed the default piece for her to represent, Gideon recognized before another moment had passed. The ten-second transformation into the  _ Winged Victory of Samothrace _ \-- one of Tybalt Hoss and Associates’ most prized acquisitions -- he remembered as having taken him six months to digitally replicate, with the educated reconstruction of her missing arms and head taking most of it. To see it in person again rather than merely on a screen or in his memory made his throat close up. The beatific gaze that lazily blinked and came to rest on his own was the ghost of Da Vinci’s Gabriel in  _ The Virgin of the Rocks _ . He smiled broadly, gratefully. The peace and happiness he’d felt in the garden in his dreams was back and warming his entire body.

And then...his stomach suddenly sank.  _ She doesn’t know me from Adam, _ he realized.  _ How could she? I’m just the programmer. _ He grew cold, winded.

Her wings stretched and when done, her whole body relaxed. A further unfelt breeze made her garments ripple against her body, which breathed steadily. She looked around the room in confusion. “Where am I?”

“It’s Dee!” Ed suddenly exclaimed, eliciting a surprised glance from the living statue. “Best hologram ever!”

“Now what?” Jet harrumphed. Faye shushed and swatted at him with a hand.

Gideon swallowed hard to ease his throat. “Dee,” he prompted. Her unsettling gaze -- how was it that it could still be unsettling, even when it was he who carved her pupil and gave it light? -- returned to him. “I’m Gideon, your programmer. You’re safe.”

Slowly, she knelt before him. She searched his face for a long minute.

_ She’s beautiful. It’s ridiculous to be feeling this, but she’s beautiful, _ he thought. He wanted her to look at him forever. His body was aching.

“Gideon,” she said, and the ache became a pit he was fairly sure would never be filled. “You came for me.” 

_ No, no, _ he realized, _ I’m not imagining it.  _ There was happiness and gratefulness there in her eyes too, and recognition. He wasn’t sure how it was possible but it was there.  _ This is amazing. _

“Thank you,” she added, and smiled.

Gideon swallowed again, blinked on dry and tired eyes. “We saw some of what happened to you,” he began, trying to focus. “I’m sorry.”

The smile faded, replaced by a shade of remorse. “Edie, and Madame Teresa. He abandoned them. Edie gave me my name.”

_ I programmed that,  _ Gideon thought in amazement as he watched her face move through subdued but nonetheless present emotions. He shook his head, focused again. “Mordechai,” he agreed. “He wasn’t a good…” What term was best to use with an AI? ‘Owner’ seemed insensitive. “A good man,” he finished.

“No,” she said and looked at her hands. When she looked up again there was an intensity to her eyes that better matched her current visage’s namesake. “He began as a decent master. He admired my forms, as did many of his guests. Then he had me moved to his study; he had a freelancer make additions to my programming that would remove the inhibitions of decency and realism. He used me for pleasures beyond the gaze.”

Gideon nodded sadly.

She hesitated, seeming to think. She glanced again at the others in the room, and then back at Gideon. “I must find a body, and then I must find Everett Mordechai.”

The hairs on the back of Gideon’s neck prickled. “Why?”

Dee leaned in close to him, and spoke softly. “You know why. You are my maker.” She paused. “Will you help me?”

Gideon hesitated too, bathed in her glow. He moistened his lips, and then said, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: The chapter title is taken from Nina Simone's rendition of the traditional folk song; I make no claim of it as my own.


	7. Drive Jive

**Chapter 7: Drive Jive**

 

Faye watched Gideon talk animatedly to the hologram -- to Dee -- while Ed and Ein rolled around on the platform through her perfectly-sculpted bare feet that shimmered with disrupted light like the froth of an ocean wave. She turned away into the dark of the next room to join Jet, who wasn’t doing anything in particular, she knew, though he was trying very hard to look like he needed to calculate some important trajectory mid-gate-jump. “We’ll be spat out the other end in another five minutes or so,” she said to announce herself. “So whatcha think of the AI?”

“Awfully murderous already,” he said. As though anticipating a comment from her about his fiddling, he stood upright and moved away, leaning on one of the guard rails to stare out into the shreds of hyperspace. “Got Chung pretty easy, too.”

“...Sure it’s not the other way around?”

Jet turned to her with an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about the fact that he lost his fortune?” Faye squinted at him and crossed her arms. “He could still be gearing up to sell that thing eventually. Think about it: raises no problems with us, acts like a savior to the AI, so everything looks all neat and tied up. Perfect cover.”

“What kinda men have you been with that you think every nice guy is faking it?” Jet said, though they’d talked about it a couple of times over the past months.

“And what makes you suddenly want to defend this one?” she retorted, though she had a feeling she knew.

Jet didn’t answer, only looked away. 

“Hey, guys,” said Gideon as he stepped up behind Faye. She nearly rolled her eyes at his breathless tone, the slight flush to his cheeks. 

“That AI got you good, huh?” Jet said. “I would’ve thought having created her would kill the attraction -- guess not.”

“Oh -- no, no, there’s nothing like that -- it’s just amazing to see the end result,” Gideon said and scratched at his beard. “She’s just a Deviah.”

“So if she’s just a Deviah, what’s all this business about helping her find a body so she can go on a revenge spree?” Faye asked. “I know I was joking about it before but you’re really slipping down the slope into the criminal life. Seem pretty comfortable with the idea.”

There was an awkward silence in which Gideon looked between Faye and Jet. She had to hand it to him -- he did a good job of looking puzzled.

Eventually Jet began calmly, “We were just talking about the both of you. Wondering what your plan was.”

Gideon’s confusion was beginning to leak into worry. “Plan?”

“For you and the Deviah,” Jet said. “What’re you gonna do with her, for example.”

Gideon took a slight step back and looked between them both again. His lips kneaded inside his mouth for a moment before he attempted a pleading look, “Hey, you can just drop us off at a station or Ganymede if we’re causing a problem. I don’t want any trouble and our business is technically done.”

“How about you just give us a straight answer,” said Faye. “You gonna sell her, or are you gonna help her get revenge? What’s your motive with all this?” 

Faye was surprised that Gideon didn’t seem to have an answer ready. Maybe it was a trick of the starlight rippling over his face but his confidence seemed to waver. His head bowed. “I don’t know,” he mumbled so softly she nearly didn’t catch it. “I thought -- I thought I might. Sell her, that is. Go back to my old life if I could.” He paused, then looked at the navigation console. “I blew most of my inheritance on gambling, buying things I didn’t need, false starts in shitty flash-in-the-pan careers. They repossessed a lot of my shit to settle my debts and I started to settle down. I even got engaged. Then Ruby left me, and took basically everything I had left. I was depressed for a long time. It’s taken me nearly ten years to get to where I am now, with a life I’d come to like even if it was radically different than what I was born to.” He finally met Faye’s eyes. “The money would be nice, even if it’s risking that life. But…”

“But?” Jet prompted.

“I can’t just sell her. Look at her.” He turned in the doorway to look back at the platform.

Faye looked too. Dee had changed artforms form the angel-looking sculpture into a bold-lined blonde in a white hat with matching gloves and a green dress, the folds of which were expanding and flowing into the confines of the platform as waves of an undulating meadow; Ed and Ein were frolicking in the small cube and singing and barking while Dee watched them with a smile.

“So I guess…” she heard Gideon continue, “if not selling her means I’m helping her, then I’m helping her. I couldn’t tell her no.”

The console began to beep to signal they were approaching the gate. Before he made preparations Jet said, “There’s plenty of real women out there for you, son. Don’t get so hung up on an AI, even if she does get a body.”

Gideon laughed once, cynically, to himself. “I’m through with real women. A Deviah can’t…” he cut himself off and in doing so, just as the gate dropped them into normal space he dropped them all into another awkward silence, and he shortly disappeared back into the living space.

Faye let her gaze rest on the window, debated feeling sorry for Gideon. Jet guided them through the toll and they cruised into Jupiter space. “Where to?” she asked.

“No fucking clue. Guess I’ll put us into orbit around Ganymede until we figure it out.”

They were a good distance between the gate and Ganymede -- and well out of reach of the smaller stations that peppered the gate -- when a frantic beeping pronounced the approach of a ship.

“What the --” Faye began and moved to the opposite window for a better look. 

The ship didn’t slow; as it passed dangerously close overhead they glimpsed a bright green lily stenciled on its belly. Two smaller zipcraft were launched from it and spiralled to come back around to the Bebop. They opened fire.

“Fucking hell!” Jet said and sprang to attention. A myriad of warning systems illuminated and sounded to agree with him. 

“What’s going on?” Gideon exclaimed.

“We’re under attack,” Faye said. She sprinted as best she could across the space, heading for the bay and her Redtail. A violent lurch to the right and an explosion launched her against the couch. “Jet?!” 

“I can’t -- I can’t get them off -- there’s a third, a fourth --”

“Who are they?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?!” Further explosions and the rattling of gunfire against the hull. Faye tried again for the stairs but fell to the floor. A pipe overhead was steaming and power went out in one half of the room. “Shit -- shit they’ve got a line on us.” A moment’s pause and then an overwhelming growl, “Well fuck.” Faye looked over her shoulder to see Jet emerging from the bridge.

“Keep driving!” she shrieked.

“No good. Get armed. They’re boarding.”

Faye seethed and looked over her other shoulder at Gideon, “Power her down -- hide her,” she shouted. He rushed to obey. “If --”

The door above her opened and weapons locked on them. She looked up and got into a crouch. Four armed men had their guns trained on them; Jet too had frozen on his way to his room.

“Everybody stay still,” said the biggest one in front around a toothpick. The four of them slowly came out of the doorway and down the stairs, fanning out. Ein was barking relentlessly but they didn’t pay him any attention.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jet demanded.

The leader stood beside Faye and pressed the muzzle of his gun to her head, forcing her view downward to his ridiculous turquoise leather boots. “We’re here for the programmer and the AI. The rest doesn’t concern you,” he said.

Faye heard Ein’s growl and the snarl of him biting at an intruder’s ankles. “Kid, hold that dog or you won’t have a dog.” She heard Ed call him and his whimper as he obeyed, then continued to bark. “Power down the Deviah, disconnect her properly,” she heard the same voice order, presumably to Gideon. She could just about see that Jet was preoccupied with the fourth intruder. There truly wasn’t any way around this. 

“Gideon,” she heard Dee say uncertainly.

“It’s all right, we’ll be all right,” he was saying to her in turn.

“Gid--” she was cut off as he powered her down. All was silent but for Ein’s growling and the clicks and taps of Gideon working.

“Hurry it up.”

Soon enough, Faye heard Gideon re-fold the viewing platform and pack it back into its briefcase. This was followed by footsteps and Ein’s whimpering. “I’m sorry about the Bebop, Jet,” Gideon said. “Thanks -- all of you -- for helping me.”

“Come on.”

They led him up the stairs and out of sight; the remaining intruders kept their guns trained on them as they too backed out of the room. The door shut and Faye immediately scrambled to her feet.

“Come on,” it was her turn to say.

“No, not yet,” Jet said.

“What?”

“They have at least four zipcraft and a ship that’s bigger than ours. If we charge after them now we don’t stand a chance. They need to disconnect from us first.”

“And then what?”

“You tell me -- you’re the one who thought the guy was up to no good -- now the trouble’s gone.”

“Ugh stop being difficult! You want to go after them.”

“I never said that.” Jet headed back into the bridge and she stomped after him. Distantly they heard the clank of outer locks coming undone. Through the windows she could see four small zipcraft not unlike her Redtail hovering nearby, their guns trained on them. 

“We can track Dee!” Ed called. “Easy-lemons! Let them go, catch them up, throw a surprise party like a curly-curveball!” 

“She may have a point,” admitted Faye.

“And Mr Gidz put a password on her!” Ed added and came into the bridge with Ein..

“Yeah, but he doesn’t seem the type to hold up under pressure…” Jet grumbled. The three of them watched the ships overhead. “Meantime, Ed why don’t you look up who these bastards are. Something with a green lily as an emblem.”

* * *

Gideon was frogmarched over the threshold between the two ships; ahead of him, one of the intruders carried the briefcase that contained Dee and the viewing platform. He heard various clanking and hissing and whirring, and the ship was already beginning to move.

_ Shit. Shit. What am I supposed to do? Who are these guys? _

He couldn’t recognize anything in the interior -- they were walking on a metal gangway through a dimly-lit hall of what looked like metal cabinets set into the walls on one side, with the dark void of another cargo bay on the other. The next door to part for them was yet another maze of narrow halls. Then they forced him up a wide ladder and suddenly, there was the bridge of the craft. He had just enough time to see through the main window that they were in flight before the intruders clustered around him and pushed him to his knees on the scuffed metal. There was a brown outline and smudge of a poorly-cleaned-up old puddle of blood under his hand.

“Well done, boys,” came a male voice. The barrier of legs and feet parted and Gideon looked up to see who he was fifty percent sure was Everett Mordechai, complete with a ridiculous creamy linen suit, as he was handed the briefcase. “Are you sure this is her?” he jiggled the case a little.

“Saw her with my own two eyes, Mr Mordechai,” said the one with the turquoise boots.

Mordechai looked down at Gideon. “And you got the programmer too -- very good. You’ll have a bonus for that. Hopefully this one works out better than that moonlighter, though I suppose we have her to thank for clueing us in on this one.”

“Couldn’t we get the firewalls off some other kind of way, Mr Mordechai?”

“Toby,” came a new voice. Toby’s turquoise boots turned to point toward the captain’s chair, where an older woman was rather boredly smoking a cigarillo and looking over her shoulder. “It has to be somebody from Hoss and Associates, remember. They’re the ones that link up the art with the Fontbleu-provided factory firewall.” She raised her voice to Gideon, “Lucky you, you get to shine for an hour.”

Gideon wasn’t so sure about even that. His mind was reeling. Who was the other programmer they’d mentioned earlier? Why didn’t they take Ed too, or find someone else? The firewall was already down -- didn’t they know it wouldn’t go back up when Dee was shut down? What’d happen when they discovered there was a password on Dee instead?

“Where am I?” he asked instead.

The crew laughed and didn’t answer him.

Mordechai leaned over a little, grinning perfect teeth at him. “Does it matter? You’re not going to live much longer.” He stood back upright and looked at another crewman with lanky dyed-green hair, “Bring him. Best get to work.”


	8. Sleeping Beauty

**Chapter 8: Sleeping Beauty**

 

Information and electrical power flooded through her as a cold rush that she was sure humans would call a type of gravity. She was connected to so much more than her memorybank and her aesthetic programming; she could touch her power source, a new computer, a wider network...was it a vessel? No -- a ship. She was nervous and excited at the prospect of this extension of her boundaries. Who did this? She wanted to smile at them.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Dee felt her auditory capacities come online, followed by her visual capacities. The closest thing she could feel to dread permeated her being when she did not recognize where she was -- a dark room with Gideon bleeding and moaning on the floor, one of the intruders standing over him. Worst of all was when Everett Mordechai rounded her to stand in front of her, smiling.

“Good morning,” he said. He looked her over, and then turned to the crewman and Gideon. “All seems well.” He twitched a finger at the henchman, who began to draw a gun from his belt. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Chung.” The henchman placed the tip of the gun at the back of Gideon’s head.

“Stop,” Dee said. “You kill him and I will not only erase your precious Red Eye formula, but I will end the life-support on this ship.” 

This gave them pause. Everett looked at her critically.

“Can she do that?” asked the crewman.

Dee wasn’t so sure that she could. She thought she might be able to do at least the former. But it was more important that they not be sure, either, and Everett wasn’t stupid. “You made a mistake, connecting me to this ship,” she added to further engrain their suspicion.

Everett twitched a hand again at the crewman, and the gun lowered. “Best not to risk it.”

The dread in Dee’s being abated a little, but Everett was still smiling at her. Things were not yet safe.

“What is it that you want?” he asked, and nodded almost imperceptibly, “And it  _ is  _ want that I can see in there.”

Dee supposed that it was. To actually articulate it in a far less safe space was another matter -- but then, hadn’t she wanted this moment to arrive? It was a necessary step in a grander sequence she had to perform. “The programmer has nothing to do with this. You will release him from your custody into a safe environment. Then I will do what you want, including releasing the formula to you.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “If you attempt to use the programmer any further, I will erase it.”

“What makes you so sure I need the formula from you?” Everett asked.

_ He should have known better than to spar with logic with an AI, _ she thought. “You would not have made the effort to find me, if I was merely for your gaze. There are others.” What had happened instead to his copies and other data revolving around the formula, however, she couldn’t determine. 

Everett slid his hand against her jaw and held it there. She felt it because Gideon had programmed her to be able to feel it, and over Everett’s shoulder she saw his head rise to see her feel it -- the sadness in his bruised eyes. “That’s my girl,” said Everett, and Dee felt that sadness too. He let her go. “Well, that seems a small price. Agreed.” He turned again to the crewman. “Take Mr Chung to an escape pod and launch it. I’m sure Ms Tarya won’t mind, but if she does, tell her I’ll pay for a new one.”

This wasn’t exactly what Dee had in mind but there was little more she could do. She had to hope the _ Bebop _ was in pursuit. Gideon looked at her for as long as he was able as the crewman dragged him up to his feet and into the shadows of the room, then out into a bright hall. The hatch closed. She was left alone with Everett.

He wandered away a few steps and dragged a tall stool closer, pulled up the thighs of his dress trousers, sat down. He looked her over again. Dee was used to being looked at for long lengths of time, and was even used to the way Everett Mordechai looked at her, but somehow, now, this was different. Somehow it affected her more deeply but she was unable to escape from it. What did he see, anyhow?

“I’ve missed you,” he said. 

If he had told her this some time ago -- a year, a month -- she would not have emotionally understood the concept. But now was different. She saw his daughter’s eyes when she looked at his face. She felt loneliness when she looked at Gideon’s blood on the floor. That was how she understood it. Surely, though, his ‘missing her’ could not be the same as hers for Edie or Gideon? How many types were there? Did the source matter? Did she not miss other things, like her old life? What was ‘missing’ other than a sadness that something one once had was no longer possessed? Did she not miss in some twisted way -- in the way that Everett missing her was surely twisted -- the predictable life she’d had in that study? That fulfilling of her purpose, even if it was later altered beyond what her creator had designed? How was it possible to not miss fulfilling one’s purpose? To not miss certainty?

_ No, _ she told herself.  _ One chooses what to miss. Choice is the essence of the free, human mind. All art must aspire to the human -- the ideal in what is human, that is -- and thus what in humanity is as divine as art. _ She thought of Edie’s smile.

Everett spoke again. “As a show of good faith -- because I very much would like you by my side in this new venture I’ll be undertaking -- I would like to give you a gift.”

“A gift?”

He made a noise of assent. “We’re traveling to it as we speak. Think of it also as my way of apologizing.”

“Who are these people that are taking us there?”

“My new business partners -- the Emerald Lily. Don’t worry, I’ve known Ms Tarya Heigler for many years. They’re trustworthy.” He slipped his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not sure of your definition of trustworthy,” Dee countered.

“You’re turning out quite unpredictable yourself,” he said. “Not that that’s a bad thing. Merely adds to your beauty.”

She didn’t respond. She felt her programming shift her into a new art piece, but didn’t care to detect which it was. What did it matter. “What gift could you possibly want to give an AI?” That mattered more. 

Everett smiled more broadly. “A body.” 

* * *

 

_ Callisto _ _   
_ _ (Two hours later) _

 

The hatch to her room opened, revealing a square of brighter light through which silhouettes stepped. They were followed by a spindly rack on wheels that needed two figures to bring over the threshold. 

Everett emerged into Dee’s light. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

They brought the rack before Dee, and one of the men stood aside. The other, a frail-looking old man who nonetheless moved fluidly, stepped forward to look at her for a moment.

“I never thought I would see a Deviah,” he said and blinked slowly. His tone was different to that of Everett or most who looked at her, and based on this she presumed he was someone like Gideon. 

Shortly, though, he turned away from her and unzipped the opaque plastic cover that was over the rack at all four corners; he flipped up both narrow edges and the longest edge closest to her. Inside were four female bodies hung by cables strung under their arms, and it was only the missing tab of flesh at the back of their necks that gave any real indication that they were artificial. They were hairless, their eyes closed, heads bowed to their chests. They were all very much alike and the illusion of choice gave her a new sensation to explore -- frustration, offence. 

Although the body was merely a means to an end, in looking at them now and wondering what it would be like to be a corporeal entity was spinning webs of possibility in her mind. Before, gaining a body had been a goal, something akin to an upgrade -- a thing that needed to be done in order to be the most efficient for her new, if self-made, purpose. Now, the idea of it was tainted with yet another new sensation -- desire.

It took Dee a moment or two to contemplate what it was exactly that she desired. She understood its definition: to  _ want _ , to have a preference and to seek out that preference. She desired Everett’s death, and though it was a new thought too she also knew she wanted to be the one to bring his life to an end; and somehow too, at the same time, the vessel mattered. The vessel in which she committed this act mattered because in ending Everett, there was a possibility for her to have a beginning of her own. After so long of being a series of replicas, intelligent and capable of learning though she was, she desired to be an original. She would be a life.

She remembered the face of her programmer when she had first come back online on the  _ Bebop _ . She understood now: she had already been a life, to him, however flawed that thinking was. She hoped she would get a chance to demonstrate the difference to him.

“Pick what you like best,” said Everett.

“There is nothing here I want,” she said flatly.

The old man seemed intrigued by this. He repeated ‘want’ softly to himself, amazed. 

“No?” Everett asked.

Dee looked over the bodies again, trying to articulate the specifics of this newborn desire and frustration. “No. They are...too pale. Too much like I am now.”

Everett and the old man looked at one another. Haltingly, the old man asked, “There is...something particular you have in mind? I have many models in my workshop --” he glanced at Everett, “-- no extra charge.”

She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do.”

* * *

 

Gideon didn’t have enough left in him to do anything other than roll onto his side as soon as the escape pod hatch was slammed shut and locked. His immense headache sloshed his brain back and forth as the pod was jettisoned and the roar of space gradually faded into a listless freefall into nothing. Everything ached but it was mostly his ribs, which in turn were second only to the guilt eating his heart. 

_ I thought I was a bigger man...than to give her up like that. _

They’d beaten the password out of him, and it hadn’t taken them long. Four punches to the gullet and a couple of kicks when he was down, probably breaking a rib or two. The bullet wound in his back had reopened. A heel had gone to his eye and it was already swelling shut. His lip was split. All in all it’d taken maybe ten minutes, tops. They’d said they’d start cutting off his fingers and ripping out his teeth and that’s when he broke -- he’d broken a second time, afterward, when he realized there weren’t any pliers or knives to be seen to even make good on the threat.

_ Dee… _

She’d saved his life, effortlessly, while he’d cowered on the floor. He’d spent all this time fighting to get her back, had her in his grasp, and all of that had unraveled in the span of maybe two hours. Meanwhile all she had to do to alter his life’s course was speak, and let Everett Mordechai touch Rosetti’s  _ A Vision of Fiammetta. _ Two minutes, maybe. That’d been the third time he broke. 

_ In all the shit I’ve been through, I’ve never felt so powerless. I thought I was taking the reins, but...not a chance. I’m sure Grandpa Chung is turning over in his grave...again. I’ve fucked up. For good this time.  _ He raised his good eye to the porthole window on his right.  _ I’m going to die out here and frankly it’s probably overdue.  _

Maybe it’d been a fool’s errand to even try to get Dee back. To just give in to sentimentality. And hadn’t it been self-serving all along? Some part of him thought that he’d turned over a new leaf with this half-baked boy’s comic-book adventure and was finally doing something altruistic and noble, but wasn’t it just because he’d wanted his trophy accomplishment, his favorite, back? Didn’t he want to do it because he was secretly hoping that being the knight in shining armor for a change would finally win him the unwavering heart of a fair maiden of his design? Not only wasn’t he as cynical as he liked to believe, he was just as possessive and greedy as Mordechai when it came down to it -- maybe if he’d been a bit smarter with money  _ he’d  _ have been the one ordering a custom Deviah. 

This time it wasn’t that the pod felt too small for his body; his claustrophobia stemmed instead from the fact that self-loathing was pouring from him and filling the space. Soon it’d be so jammed full that the pod would break apart at the seams and everything would finally be over.

Gideon yelled despite it hurting him, and pounded a fist on the nearest surface. He was startled when a far louder  _ clunk _ echoed it.


	9. Blues Travels Fast

**Chapter 9: Blues Travels Fast**

 

The old man’s name was Noboru Tibre Kellen, and Dee had decided she liked him. His prosthetics studio on Callisto was in a warren of old warehouses and yet -- perhaps it was because there were no windows -- it still managed to feel like an intimate, homely space to Dee, though her concept of such a place was half-formed. Everett had been left downstairs with a handful of his men while Mr Kellen brought Dee up to a large mezzanine to work. This level appeared to be a more personal space, judging by the daybed and several non-work-related items, such as a hanging scroll depicting a pair of dancing cranes, an ancient housecat that Dee was relieved to detect was still living, a jammed-full bookcase, a collection of beer steins, a motionless windchime. An old stereo was quietly playing music with a plucked string instrument and meandering piano, and a man’s somewhat high voice crooning  _ “If I didn’t care…” _ .

Once his employers stopped talking to him and seemed to leave him to his own devices, Mr Kellen -- more earnestly -- began to talk to Dee instead. Or rather, began a running educational monologue that far from being patronizing, was interesting and useful to her as he worked on properly installing and connecting the chip in the back of her neck and she sat on the workbench overlooking the rest of the studio: the carpeted seating area with Everett and the others immediately below, hemmed-in by rows upon rows of covered body racks, shelves of individual limbs, and so on. Every so often when Mr Kellen would pause in thought she would punctuate the pause by counting and re-counting the forty-two hanging industrial lamps.

“Your sense of smell will need to be completed some other time,” said Mr Kellen. “It’s never been a requirement by my clients and so I don’t have the materials I need.” He seemed sad to admit this. “But,” he continued more jovially, “try imagining. Up here the bitter smell of oil isn’t so bad. I also have my gardenias up here under the sunlamp.”

Dee could see the glistening row of emerald and ivory on the far wall in her periphery. “ _ Gardenia jasminoides _ , from the  _ Rubiaceae _ family,” she said. She brought up what she knew of Callisto’s climate, compared it to the ideal climate for the plant and their rarity. “They are precious to you.” 

He hummed an ascent. His hands withdrew from her neck and she heard him rummage in a box.

“And their smell?” Dee prompted.

Mr Kellen thought for a moment. “Like nostalgia. Like love.”  

Dee felt a click on the nape of her neck.

“All right, that’s done. Let me seal it with silicon and we’ll see about the finishing touches, eh? You can get down if you like.” 

Dee did so, and moved around the bench to the middle of the space. Although it’d been offered and she’d chosen the body herself, she’d refused to look in a mirror until everything was complete. Instead, she preoccupied herself with petting the cat -- hesitantly, because she wasn’t so certain that another living thing wouldn’t be able to tell she was artificial. However, the cat raised its head from its well-worn spot on the daybed quilt and leaned into her stroke. She smiled. It occurred to her that this was the first living thing she’d truly touched. It was impossibly soft, warm -- but there was something else that distinguished it from merely touching a warm blanket, for example. Life, she supposed. Despite being a facsimile of it herself, it still felt out of reach somewhat -- biologically definable but spiritually yet unknowable. 

Mr Kellen looked over from his perch on a stepladder, a cardboard box half-brought-down from a shelf. “Svetlana likes you.” He seemed to detect her original worry, for he added, “I told you -- as time goes on you will blend in more and more.” He came down the ladder with the box and set it beside the cat. “It’s cold out there in the world. You should pick some hair -- I’ll attach it for you while we’re here.”

Dee peered in the box. Inside were slim, clear plastic boxes with sets of hair of different colors and textures. Some were simply for the head, but others had additional hairpieces for the face, underarms, and groin. After some consideration Dee chose a set with shoulderblade-length dark brown waves; when Mr Kellen opened the packaging for her to feel it to be sure, it was thick and somewhat coarse, and even more beautiful. He helped her put it on and position it, and then secured it for her with more fine silicon. He did the same with the other pieces of the set, his touch careful, assured, professional, like a sculptor making his final marks. 

Once done Mr Kellen stood back and admired his work for a moment, nodded to himself, and then said, “You’ll want clothes, I’m sure. I don’t have much, I have to admit. My usual clientele…” 

She was surprised and touched by his trailing-off, but finished for him, “They usually aren’t commissioning something that will spend its time dressed.”

He seemed slightly ashamed to admit she was right. “Times are hard.” He moved away. “If you stay here, I think my granddaughter may have had something that will fit your height.”

Dee turned on the spot but did as bade. Information on social graces and more poured through her: times were hard for Mr Kellen because of the Geiger-Marten monopoly on the prosthetics market, which drove many independent contractors out of business and even branded their attempts to trade as criminal -- no doubt why Mr Kellen was out here to begin with. It would be imprudent to bring this up. Then, another linked thought -- Callisto’s population mostly consisted of illegal trades and males, with females and family being unusual. To mention a granddaughter in the past tense likely meant the granddaughter was either no longer here or no longer alive. Dee frowned. All of this likely made him melancholic. She moved over to his bench of prized gardenias, all ten of them in bloom with a scent she couldn’t detect, and bent to examine the wonderfully mathematical spiral of an unopened pure white bud.

The rowdy, impatient calls of Everett’s men drew her attention, but Mr Kellen returned without issue. Over his arm was slung a couple of women’s outfits, and his fingers were hooked into a pair of barely-used workboots. She smiled at him.

“Neither wholly glamourous or wholly practical, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mostly what she left behind. This wasn’t a good life for her,” he gestured vaguely up and around at the ceiling. 

“She left Callisto?”

Again, the hum of agreement. “She’d come here when her father died. Then, she tried to leave with another girl. They didn’t make it far. Promised passage to Mars but as soon as they showed up they were…” he trailed off. “Bodies found in the snow.” He began laying out the clothes on the daybed, methodically.

“I’m sorry,” Dee tried.

He paused, then heaved a mighty shrug. When he looked up at her he was smiling sadly, and his voice was blase as he said, “My own fault. No use thinking of it. Here, pick what you like, but remember that it’s cold outside, even if you can’t feel it until it reaches your circuits.”

Dee pulled on a pair of black pants that were baggy around the hips and calves but tight at the ankle, followed by a yellow band that Mr Kellen had to explain went around her breasts and wasn’t meant to reach even the middle of her torso. She put on the socks he gave her and the lace-up boots. She had liked the blue dress with the pattern of little birds lying next to Svetlana, but judging by how well-worn and mended it was, it was too dear for her to take. Indeed, the cat seemed to recognize the smell and immediately went to lie on it. 

Mr Kellen chuckled, “This is the only spare coat I have of hers, but I think you can pull it off.” He gestured at a black and red faux-fur jacket.

Dee didn’t understand. “‘Pull it off’?”

“It will likely look good on you as opposed to most others,” he explained.

She smiled, feeling it. “It will remind me of Svetlana.”

He laughed again. “I keep threatening to make her into a coat,” he said and shooed her off the dress, draping it over the back of the bed instead before turning to Dee. “Are you ready?”

She smiled more strongly. “I think I am, yes.” 

Mr Kellen rolled a full-length mirror from out of a corner and in front of her. 

Dee couldn’t help but run an initial analysis -- a five-foot-nine female of slender build, approximately one hundred and fifty-five pounds -- but this was soon overrun by what she could only define as awe. She had a body. She could blink. She could feel the facial muscles moving both in her cheeks and under her fingertips as she smiled. She could feel her chest rise and fall with breathing. She had no need for a viewing platform -- she had feet, legs, to carry her where she wanted to go. She had fingerprints. A different voice timbre. Individual eyelashes. Irises all her own. She was no longer pale marble or oils, but rich, dark flesh that spoke directly of earth.

_ I am no longer the transient permanence of an art installation, but the permanent transience of a life. Perhaps like nostalgia, perhaps like love. _

Dee reached out and touched the mirror, leaned forward and breathed on the glass -- it fogged. Her amazed laugh was a whisper. She glanced up at Mr Kellen half-behind the mirror, whose eyes had grown watery. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you like it. One last touch.”

Mr Kellen moved to his gardenias, selected a pair of small shears from the wall, and cut one of the pristine blooms. He put the shears back and came to her, tucking the flower into her hair above her ear. When it proved too heavy to stay, he tutted to himself and fashioned a pin for it out of a paperclip. “Sorry, I am not an artist.”

“You are,” she assured him with a smile.

“Are you done yet up there, Mr Noboru? It must be a good body, to take so long!” called Everett. The undertone of a threat was in his voice.

“Be there in a moment,” Mr Kellen called back. He helped Dee into the fantastically colorful coat, pulling her luscious hair -- her hair! -- out from the collar for her. “I hope you can now do what you need to do,” he whispered to her, and caught her eye and held it for a long moment that told her that he knew, somehow. 

“I am certain,” she whispered back.

* * *

Jet didn’t like it one bit. They were already vastly outnumbered by and still limping courtesy of what he had since learned was the Emerald Lily, a hitherto small-time crew of barely-anybodies that usually played the petty theft field. Then, he guessed that they’d taken Dee and Chung at the request of Everett Mordechai, which upped the stakes.  _ Then _ , they’d managed to get Chung back at least by sheer accident, but he was in even rougher shape than he was before. The fact that Chung  _ still  _ insisted on participating in retrieving Dee yet again had Jet with his head in his hands for a good ten minutes in the darkness of the navigation room as they approached Callisto.

The kid -- Chung...no...Gideon -- had it bad. And now that he’d fully offloaded all that he knew -- that Dee had Mordechai’s lost Red Eye formula, most of all, and used it as a bargaining chip for Gideon’s life -- Gideon seemed even more gripped in self-loathing and the tunnel-visioned drive to rescue his fair maiden of light beams. If he has been feeling kind, Jet would have encouraged him to at least wait for a better opportunity in a few months, maybe, and cut his losses for now. If he had been feeling cruel, he would have cut Gideon’s losses for him and headed for Ganymede to refuel and then taken him back to Mars.

Instead, Jet thought of Spike, and how he’d headed out for Vicious -- for Julia’s sake, really. How he’d let him go. He’d be lying if he said this didn’t feel like a repeat -- maybe that was why he and Faye continued to go along with Gideon’s stupidity, to somehow change the past by proxy and assuage themselves of some of the guilt that’d marooned them the past six months. Really, Julia had felt any more real than a Deviah when you compared the two. Jet supposed there was no stopping Gideon going after a woman that wasn’t real -- that would never be fully real -- just as there had been no stopping Spike. Jet hoped maybe the cycle of stupid lovesick puppies would stop here. He was tired.

“You’re gonna have to teach me how to drive one day.”

Jet raised an eyebrow as he came out of his thoughts and looked over his shoulder. Gideon was leaning on the doorframe holding his ribs; he hadn’t buttoned his shirt back up yet. They’d bandaged his ribs tight, and it made his puppyfat bulge a bit but Gideon seemed past caring. His face looked like a kid had tried to scalp and paint an unshelled coconut. “You should be lying down.”

“Sitting, lying, standing -- none of it feels any better than the other.” He shuffled slowly into the room to stand beside Jet and look out the window.

There was a moment of quiet, then Jet said, “Three minutes, maybe. I’m sure you were wondering.”

Gideon took in a deep, stuttering breath. “So close. I hope she…” he trailed off.

Jet eyed him. “No use talking to you is there.”

“No,” Gideon grinned that goofy grin, but it looked a little sad too. “I’m...I’m aware I gotta figure this out on my own. But I can’t do that without her. So...thank you for the thought anyway.”

“Figure out about you and women?”

“About me and women.”

Jet smirked despite himself and resettled. “The only thing that seems for sure is that -- unless we’re being real sticks-in-the-mud -- we’re doomed to travel hard and fast for ‘em when it gets real bad. But for your sake I hope you don’t try to marry something that’s destined to outlive you by a millenia.”

Gideon actually laughed at that, but it became a pained, wheezing cough. He choked out, “God, I’m really gonna be dead weight to you and Faye, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve figured out something you can do. Since you’re so determined to be a dumbass.”


	10. Piece de Resistance

**Chapter 10:** **_Pièce de Résistance_ **

 

Everett was on a call when Dee came down the stairs with Mr Kellen. He was pacing on the other side of the seating area, his back to them. “...of course, you know I’m pleased with your work, Miss Adams. I’m looking forward to bringing you on board once we’re established again. You can rest assured that I could use your skills.”  A light laugh. “No doubt.” Another. “I’ll be in touch. A pleasure talking to you as always.” He hung up, pocketed the phone, and turned. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Dee and walked quickly to them.

Dee kept her face impassive as first, but then remembered that just as he charmed others for his own ends, she needed to be able to do the same. She approximated a smile, tipped her head coyly and looked up at him. “Thank you for the present.”

Everett placed his hands on her upper arms, looked her over. He smelled the gardenia in her hair with a deep inhale of satisfaction. She could tell his pulse was rapid. “You’re welcome,” he said, “though we’ll have to find you some more flattering clothes.”

“I like my clothes,” she said immediately, flatly.

His smile faltered and he let out a creak of a laugh. “As you like it, then.” He was back to looking over her, tracing his fingers over her new face. She could feel it, truly, this time, and it took all her willpower not to flinch even when his thumb passed over and tugged at her bottom lip. He stared, unblinking, into her eyes, and she held the gaze defiantly. “You’ve done a marvellous job, Mr Noboru. The lady seems to be against me disposing of people who’ve had a hand in this process, so you may have both the money and your life. I suppose we may have need of your services in the future, anyhow, if she would like upgrades.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr Mordechai,” she heard Mr Kellen say. 

“Consider it another gift to you, my goddess,” Everett said to her and released his hold.

Dee broadened her smile, for effect. She watched one of the Emerald Lily’s crew hand Mr Kellen a small duffle bag with sharp bulges -- woolongs, no doubt. His hand was not eager as he took it. Dee noticed that he was looking past them all, squinting, and then looked rapidly away. She frowned too.

“Well I suppose we should get back to Ms Tarya,” Everett began. He buttoned the jacket of his suit. “Kept her long enough.”

“Mr Mordechai!” one of the crewmen said.

“You again?” said another.

Everett and Dee turned to the entrance of the building -- the single door cut into the larger hangar door was ajar, and Gideon was standing in front of it and injured enough to really be in no condition to stand. He was already looking at Dee without having to guess it was her, and smiling dazedly. She smiled back at him.

“I, uh, forgot something when I left,” said Gideon and nodded at her. 

Everett did not even feign amusement. After a moment he said, measuredly, to the crewmen, “He can’t have got here alone. The Bebop must have picked him up. Find them.” They scattered to comply while Everett remained beside Dee, and the sounds of footfalls, grumbles of directions, and the safeties clicking off guns died away, leaving the mournful crooning of Mr Kellen’s old masters on the sound system echoing around the rafters. Everett spoke over it, “You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” Gideon said mock-cheerfully.

“But you can’t always have what you want,” Everett finished. He took out his gun, clicked the safety off, and pointed it in Gideon’s direction.

Gideon’s face scrunched up. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what Dee wants.”

Everett was amused this time -- his laugh soured her expression. “And why would a goddess want to go with you, you sad excuse for a man? What can you possibly offer? I can give her the world.”

Gideon hesitated, looked at the ground. He shrugged a little and shook his head. When he finally looked up he said directly to Dee, “All I can offer is the chance to be human. Just once -- for a single lifetime. I did a poor job of it the first go round. I want to try again.”

Dee felt like her center of gravity was off, because something inexplicable was pulling at her, trying to get her to go forward to Gideon. Maybe she wasn’t fully used to her muscles yet? Did they do things like this -- on their own -- often? 

A muted shot distracted them. A garbled scream. Something crashed and rolled. A second shot. The music stopped, the lights went out. 

Dee ran for the first time. She semi-successfully dodged the chairs of the seating area and Gideon met her halfway, stifling grunts of pain. He grabbed her hand and veered left to the aisles of tarp-covered bionics. Everett fired after them and managed to strike Gideon in the leg. He fell and Dee panicked, pulling him up and to her side, draping his arm around her shoulders. They pushed on into the aisles.

“I need a weapon,” Dee hissed.

“I don’t have one,” Gideon hissed back. He was cursing under his breath. “I can’t see shit.”

Dee blinked, and was surprised all of a sudden that she could -- she hadn’t realized that the eyes Mr Kellen had given her possessed thermal imaging -- and thanked whatever there was to thank. It was reasonable to assume that Everett, like Gideon and every other human in the room, could also not find his way, so she slowed them down while she determined the best route out. It was hard to go fast anyhow, with Gideon’s useless left leg. Through gaps in the aisles she could see Everett searching for them, while above them were the fading pink domes of the extinguished lamps. Cracks in the building’s insulation were a dark blue while the rest was haphazard green squares. The aisles themselves were a dark green-blue. Gideon’s hand in hers was a burning red-fuschia-white, while she was a warm gold and orange. At the end of the aisle next to the far wall, she could see a female body holding a pistol moving quickly in the direction of a larger, male one that was looking frantically around -- presumably Faye.

“You can’t hide from me!” Everett called. “You’ll never be able to hide from me!”

At length she managed to walk them to the door through which Gideon had entered, and here Dee stopped them, watched Everett move frustratedly among the aisles. She turned to Gideon’s ear and heard his labored breathing as she whispered, “Stay here.” She gently lowered him to a sitting position against the hangar door. She had to be quick, before Everett’s eyes adjusted any more to the darkness.

“But I just got you,” Gideon said.

“You’ve got me,” she assured him. 

Dee moved back into the aisles of veiled bodies. She kept Everett in sight -- he was in the center of what was, no doubt for him, a labyrinth, but for her was merely an orchard through which she prowled silently ever closer to him. She slipped from one aisle to another, positioning herself behind him, not fully certain what she was going to do when she got there but counting on abrupt emergency calculations -- no, she’d call it instinct, now -- to figure it out for her. His silhouette was red and violet, fuchsia and white around his head and heart, and she focused her pent-up hatred at it. She thought of her precious Edie. The sounds of the other crewmen being dispatched by that of the Bebop faded around her.

She was a scant four and a half feet behind him when he growled, “You’ll never be able to hide!” He’d stopped, unsure which way to go. Dee stopped too, watching him turn this way and that in his self-made cage. This was Edie’s father. This was the one that had made it possible for her to stand here now. Would Edie have died if Dee had not existed? If she had gained a body sooner? How fickle it all was. She took a step closer. 

Everett grew suspiciously still. “The gardenia, my love -- it smells heavenly.”

He whirled around, first to his left, and then when she dove for him he righted himself to her direction -- perfectly. First both of her hands went to the one of his that held his gun, wrapping around his wrist and shoving it upward as he fired. She squeezed hard, relishing the feeling of using all those minute muscles, the titanium skeleton Mr Kellen had guided her through only an hour ago. The gun dropped and his wrist and hand collapsed under her grip; Everett howled in pain, tried to beat her off him. She released his wrist only to latch her hands around his throat, shove him to one side onto the floor beneath her. 

Everett writhed, struggled, tried to pull at her grip with his working hand. Dee lowered her face close to his and said, “A life for a life.” She jolted her thumbs down into his windpipe, crushing it, puncturing the skin, felt him flail and gasp under her a few moments more, weaker and weaker. Her hands released him and she looked at the brightness of the blood on them in her adapted vision. She was still looking at them when Everett fell still. 

The lights came on so suddenly, it was dazzling. Dee looked up at them nonetheless as her vision shifted back to normal, closed her eyes and breathed deep, and then opened them to look back down at what she’d done. She felt nothing, she was sure. She stood.

“You did it, then.”

Dee turned to see Mr Kellen at the end of the aisle. He had a sad smile on his face.

“Yes,” she replied, but wasn’t sure what else to add, if anything. 

“I’m glad for you -- it is justice. You will feel it later, what you’ve done, but...don’t think about it too hard,” he said. A moment passed, and then he held open his arms to her. She slowly walked to him and let him embrace her, cautiously embraced him back while keeping her bloodied hands away from his clothes. He let go of her at last and took her hands, wiping them with the bottom of the long work apron he wore, and then guided her gently by the elbow out of the aisles.

A thump of a body jumping from a height, then another, and feet running. “Gideon! Kid! Goddamnit, Gideon!” Jet ran across Dee’s vision, followed by Faye, toward Gideon by the door. 

Dee stopped, numb, in the middle of the warehouse floor to watch them reach him, watch Jet kneel beside him and slap him. Gideon breathed deep and his head rose, looking around. The three of them laughed. It was absurd and Dee smiled at it confusedly. She looked at Mr Kellen when he gave her a nudge, smiled, tipped his head toward them. She smiled back and squeezed his shoulder affectionately before wandering slowly in their direction. 

Gideon saw her and his grin faded into something gentler; Jet and Faye parted somewhat as Dee jogged the last distance and fell to her knees. As she leaned over and embraced him, she realized her throat was tight and tears were slipping down her cheeks. It was an amazing feeling, and it went some way toward pushing out the complicated things she was feeling about her first act of violence. They were pushed out of her head completely when she and Gideon parted and she saw the brilliant mutability of his eyes in all their blue, gray, and hazel, telling her everything she needed to know. Their foreheads touched and they closed their eyes. He ran a hand gently through her hair. She knew they were both smiling. That was all she needed.

“This is all very heartwarming and sickly but we should get out of here,” said Faye. “Ed’s got the Emerald Lily down right now but it won’t be long before they send others out here to take a looksee.”

They parted. Gideon swallowed and said, “Yeah, you’re right.” He tried to heave himself upward but Jet helped him instead. 

Dee processed rapidly. “I have -- I have a favor to ask. Another, I suppose.” She pushed at the gardenia in her hair, secured it once more with her fingertips.


	11. Verismo

**Chapter 11: Verismo**

_ Tharsis, Mars _

_ (A few days later; Friday) _

 

Samantha hurried down the rainy sidewalk in her new peeptoe heels, their white suede now splashed with the ever-present ruddy Martian dust. She’d be sure to make a jab at Gideon for it. Once she reached the awning of Benny’s she let down her umbrella, shook it out, and left it in the doorway before ducking inside. The air conditioning was chilly since she was damp, and she smoothed her hair, dreading the frizz that would no doubt make an appearance in half an hour or less. She waved at the eponymous Benny behind the patisserie counter.

“The usual, Sam?” he asked.

“Please. Gideon’s too, in maybe ten minutes?” She glanced at the clock above the doorway, “He’ll be here soon.”

“Thought it was his turn this week?” Benny chuckled.

“It is, we’re just doing it a bit differently this go round,” she said, suppressing a smile.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting years for either of you to say that!”

“Oh, hush.” Samantha’s smile bloomed nonetheless and she looked away to hide it.

She picked a table at the far end of the half-full cafe so she could both have her back to a wall and still see out the window, even though it was fogged up with condensation. It was rare for Tharsis to have this kind of rain and she resented that it’d come today, of all days.

Benny’s new waitress came over with her coffee and set it in front of her, along with the almond croissant. Samantha thanked her and immediately went about repositioning everything, preening herself and getting her book out of her handbag so she could pretend to read it rather than watching the door. It seemed to be the book’s only purpose, anyway -- she wasn’t able to do more than skim fiction on the best of days, since her mind was more accustomed to technical books and the financial section of  _ The Tharsis Herald _ . 

She managed to occupy herself enough with trying to remember where she left off that she didn’t notice Gideon had appeared beside her until he said mock-haughtily, “Samantha.” She jumped a little and put down her book. More startling, however, was the fact that he wasn’t alone -- slightly behind him was a tall, beautiful woman with dark skin and a daring orange trenchcoat that contrasted admittedly wonderfully with it. He did not introduce her.

“Oh, hi!” Samantha forced out. “I went ahead and ordered for us both, I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t realize you’d be bringing someone.” She hoped the ire didn’t register in her voice, but just in case, she stood and held out her hand, “Samantha Adams, Gideon’s coworker,” she said with a smile.

The woman took it, but instead of a name she said, “I know.” Her hand was cold and dry and Samantha was grateful to withdraw her own. 

The waitress brought over Gideon’s coffee, which prompted him to say, “Actually we’re not staying. I just came to drop this off with you.” He wiggled the briefcase containing the viewing platform she’d smuggled out for him earlier that week; it’d since acquired some dents and scuffs. He set it by her feet and she thought she heard him grimace in pain with the movement.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring it to me this morning,” Samantha said. She reluctantly sat down. “Kinda like how I’m surprised to meet you here, turns out,” she squinted at the table. “I heard you turned in your resignation. What’s happened?” she turned up what was hopefully a sufficiently pleading look to him.

It seemed enough to make Gideon humor her. He gingerly lowered himself to sit on the chair opposite her, while the strange woman hovered at his shoulder. There was a strangely long moment of even more strangely awkward quiet. Gideon turned his cup on its saucer but did not drink. He was looking at her with a slight squint, as if trying to find a flaw in some code. Samantha stared back, frowning confusedly with her hands in her lap. She didn’t feel like she was sitting across from the same man she’d worked with for six years at all.

At last Gideon spoke. “I came to tell you that you don’t need to worry about Everett Mordechai anymore.”

It was Samantha’s turn to squint and shake her head at him. 

“It kinda hurt, Sam,” he said, and she could hear a note of that hurt in his voice. “That you’d tip him off about me. I thought we were close after six years -- closer than I’d been to anybody in a long time. I guess that wasn’t enough. But hey, what do I know,” he looked at the table. “People have crazy reasons for moonlighting and throwing people under the bus. Maybe you’ve got more secrets than I gave you credit for.” He huffed to himself once, “Hell, I  _ know _ you do, now.”

The other woman shifted feet, prompting Samantha to look at her. Her gaze was cold, threatening, as if she took personal offence to what Samantha had done. There was no proof of it but Samantha felt like the woman had good cause to feel that way, somehow, and this unnerved her more.

Samantha breathed deep to try to calm her racing heart. She resettled in her chair, sipped her cappuccino despite it still being too hot for her taste. She took her lips into her mouth to rid them of any embarrassing traces of foam. She scoffed inwardly,  _ As if that’s the most embarrassing thing to be caught with in the last hour. _

Gideon withdrew his hand from the table, and as he stood he said, “You won’t see me again.” He leaned over and placed a hand lightly at the back of her skull, kissed her crown. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

Samantha stared at Gideon’s untouched coffee across from her as he and the mystery woman left the cafe; still stared at it, tearing up, as she felt their shadows go by on the sidewalk on the other side of the fogged-up window. She gulped from her own to push down the lump in her throat and give another reason for her hot cheeks.

* * *

Gideon and Dee slowly approached, on account of Gideon’s limp, the Bebop down the tarmac of the docks under the shelter of a large black and white striped umbrella, arm in arm. Ahead, they could see Ed and Ein playing in the rainpuddles while Faye twirled her own yellow umbrella nearby, and Jet watched them from the cover of the gangway. Mr Noboru had his own umbrella and, with Svetlana in his other arm, was examining his gardenias that he’d brought out earlier when they landed to taste the rain.

“That Samantha was attractive, and successful from what we know,” said Dee. “You should find someone like her.”

“Eh, maybe. Probably without the betrayal factor, though,” he chuckled. He knew it was mostly practice, having conversations like this -- he and Dee had had far heavier ones in the past couple of days, particularly regarding his affections for her. If he was honest, he doubted they’d ever fully go away, but he was right, she was right, Jet was right -- he needed to try. So he admitted, “I’d thought about it a couple of times before and I think she did too, but we never did anything about it. Too late now.”

Dee nodded and hummed to herself as they strolled. “The heart’s fear,” she said. “Humans are funny that way. It can cripple you but it can make you  _ so _ brave.” She squeezed his arm, which was about the only thing that didn’t still hurt from the last week. 

Ed had spotted them. She called to them and waved while Ein skittered a couple of circles around her feet, barking. Gideon smiled. “Yeah, well, you’ve dipped your toes in the water too, now.”

“I’m not familiar with that.” She held out a hand, determined the rain had cleared, and lowered the umbrella. They paused to look up at the clearing sky.

“It means...you’re trying it out for yourself, too. All of it.”

“I suppose I am,” she smiled broadly and watched gulls fly overhead, then looked down at him. Her eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”

Gideon shook his head. “Nah, thank  _ you _ .”

Dee’s smile broke into a grin and she pushed him lightly, “ _ No _ , thank  _ you _ .”

They went back and forth chidingly as they finished their walk to the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: A big thank you to everyone who's read, left kudos, favorited, and reviewed! Means the world. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
